Culture Shock
by hetaliareference
Summary: Germany comes to visit Spain's home with both Italies for the weekend but clashing cultures and family strife make for a very stressful vacation. Pairings: Germany/Italy and Spain/Romano.
1. Chapter 1

**Culture Shock  
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* * *

><p>Germany fiddled with his watch for the second time in five minutes. He was truly beginning to wonder how he'd fooled himself into thinking this could be a good idea.<p>

It was probably because it _did_ sound like a good idea, in the beginning. A week ago, Spain had invited both Germany and Italy to his house for a weekend long vacation, and in purely theoretical terms, he was sure this could be a delightful way to spend one's time. Despite all rumors to the contrary, Germany _could_ appreciate a break every now and then, and the recent financial crisis had put him under enough stress that Prussia was graciously offering to do his fair share for once. It was only when Germany's workload finally tapered off a little did he have time to realize just how little he'd seen of Italy in the recent months and how guilty that made him feel. After all, no matter what Germany was going though, this had to be taking a worse toll on Italy, both financially and emotionally, and he had a lot less practice dealing with stress than Germany did. So when the opportunity arose, Germany decided that he would use this slow period as efficiently as possible and enjoy a few carefree days with Italy at his side—plus, Madrid was supposed to be beautiful at this time of year, right?

But now, the closer they actually got to Madrid, the more Germany felt the reality of the situation soaking in. This wasn't going to be nearly as easy as taking Italy out for dinner or tolerating his family for a single afternoon. This most certainly wasn't like when he nodded politely when listening to Italy talk about some of his most unfathomable passions, like modern art museums. In truth, this was never going to be _just_ a vacation—this was about to be an entire weekend spent in the dangerously sunny territory of the Mediterranean, where everything comfortable to Germany would be far, far away. _He_ would be the one feeling confused by the culture surrounding him for once, and it would be absolutely imperative for him to adjust. Despite technically being on vacation already, Germany felt the pressure was back on.

Even with Italy's warm presence sitting right beside him—he was playing games on his phone with his feet up on the chair in front of him, entirely at ease in his environment—Germany had been feeling out of his element ever since boarding their final train near the French boarder and being thrust into this unfamiliar world of lively, talkative Spanish people. All around him were conversations being carried on in rapid Spanish and the sights of dark complexions and tans (this led him to believe he just might be the only blond present). Also, not a single one of these Spaniards seemed bothered by the heat inside the train, nor the intense sunlight coming in through the windows—Germany, meanwhile, was wearing a t-shirt and he _still_ wished he'd thought to dress lighter.

_Keep it together_, Germany coached himself. He had to stop himself from compulsively checking his watch again. He knew he was just nervous, because not having control of a situation tended to do that to him. In truth, he'd been all over the world and visited a lot of warm places in the past, but he'd spent very little time fully acclimating himself to another culture. But, he reminded himself, just because things were a lot different in Spain's home or the future was completely unknown to him did not mean the end of the world. Maybe he was working himself up for nothing, and he'd fit in well enough. Maybe it wouldn't be quite so bad if he could just learn to deal with heat and siestas and pretending to be Catholic and—

"Oh," said Italy. "Someone's texting me."

Germany snapped out of his thoughts.

"Who is it? Spain?" Germany had lowered his voice in case anyone in the vicinity was listening. Having their fellow passengers catch on to who they were and growing excited would only add to his problems.

"It's—" Italy hit a button and squinted at the screen. "Romano. Uh oh, he says he just now found out you were coming."

_Right._ Romano. That was the other reason why Germany was starting to think this was a bad idea. Romano still disliked him as far as he knew, so when Spain conveyed his intentions to make this a family event of sorts, all along Germany had blissfully assumed that Spain wasn't actually _serious_ about making sure Romano was there. Surely, he thought, Spain knew that having Romano there would be like planning a family reunion and intentionally inviting that one relative no one liked to talk about.

"If he's just now hearing about it then I guess that would be how Spain managed to convince him. Is Romano saying he's not coming anymore?" Germany probably shouldn't have sounded so cheerful saying that.

"No, he says he's already at Spain's house." Italy frowned and started tapping back a reply. "Romano also says that if Germany really shows up he's going to go straight home. Oh!" He looked up. "Don't worry though, Germany, I don't think he actually would since we both know how much he likes to be with Spain."

"Right." Germany had his suspicions about that, but it was best not to say it out loud. It was the sort of thing he didn't want to ask about and find out he was wrong—or right, for that matter. "You might as well tell him I'm going to be there, then."

"I am." Italy finished his reply and dropped his phone back onto his lap. He sighed. "I wish Spain had gotten Romano to come in a nicer way because now I just have to hope he won't make a big fuss about it when we get there. Romano tends to get angry and ruin stuff, you know?"

"Well aware," said Germany. He reached down for his water bottle and took a long drink. "How hot is it supposed to be in Madrid the next few days? Do you know?"

"Well, I heard there's a chance of it raining, but otherwise it's supposed to be thirty-twoish all weekend—"

Italy laughed at the look on Germany's face and gave him a sympathetic pat.

"Spain's got air conditioning. You'll be fine."

* * *

><p>"Ita! Germany! Over here!"<p>

Germany stood up just as Italy turned—he was nearly hit in the face by a swinging suitcase—and their eyes were immediately drawn to Spain, who had jumped up from a bench and begun waving ridiculously beside a stoic Romano. Germany felt a little faint just looking at them both wearing long pants in this weather, but he did his best to keep up with Italy's full sprint down the station, even with all the luggage he was carrying.

"Hi Spain! Hi Romano!"

"Hi Ita! It feels like I haven't seen you in _forever_!"

Italy laughed as he caught up to Spain, who flung out his arms and welcomed a tight hug. Once they'd let go, Germany was surprised when Romano moved to put his arms around his brother as well.

"Ciao, Veneziano."

"Ciao, ciao! I'm glad you're here, Romano!" Italy said, breathlessly. "I guess you didn't go home after all?"

"I didn't want to leave after I'd just gone through the trouble of coming," Romano said, bluntly.

"Germany!" Spain exclaimed, like he'd only just seen him, and enthusiastically put out his hand. Germany took it and tried to maintain good eye contact, as was proper procedure. He was partially distracted by Italy's attempts to straighten Romano's messy collar and Romano trying to bat him away in response. "It's good to see you again too! See, Romano's here and he's not even complaining that much, everything worked out!"

"Worked out my ass." Romano jerked his collar flat and glared at Germany like he was sizing him up for a fight. For the second time that day, Germany wished he'd dressed differently, as Romano was looking typically well-dressed while he himself had thrown on the lightest clothing he owned this morning. "I can't believe you fuckin' lied to me, Spain. You said it'd just be me and you and Veneziano and then you went and invited this asshole too."

"I invited him because you really ought to learn to how to make friends," Spain told him, and seeing the faint blush on Romano's features, Germany thought, was completely worth that insult. "Germany wanted to be here and get to know us a little better, okay? So this weekend is going to be a bonding exercise. I know you can handle it, Romano, so you can start by being polite to our guest."

"How about you start by fucking off?"

"You first," Spain challenged, brightly, and then he turned to Germany. "Would you like me to carry some of your luggage to the car? Those look heavy."

"Oh." Germany looked down at himself and realized just how much he was holding. He probably shouldn't have packed quite so much, now that he thought about it. "That's alright, Spain, so you don't have to—"

Italy shook his head and leaned upward to whisper to him.

"Go ahead and let him, he's trying to set a good example for Romano."

Germany glanced over to see Romano trying with all his might to glare at Spain hard enough to vaporize him. Spain was oblivious to it.

"Well," Germany said, with a tiny cough, "actually, a little help would be nice, if you're offering."

Germany set down their luggage and by the time all the suitcases and bags were shuffled around, everyone had something to carry. Even Romano was holding something, though that most likely had to do with Italy shoving a bag into his arms. He began to complain again in an instant, but Spain, with two suitcases under his arms, gave him a big smack on the back and cheerfully told him to shut up.

* * *

><p>When Germany first caught sight of Spain's house, he had to pause for a moment to gaze at it with proper awe. He'd seen brick and stucco homes in the past, but Spain's was particularly handsome and well-kept—it soothed his mixed feelings about coming, somewhat, to know that at least cleanliness was considered a universal virtue even here. He could also see a tiny field off in the distance, probably the one with the tomatoes that Italy always spoke of so fondly, and he thought to himself that maybe if the heat ever died down he'd like to go out to see it.<p>

"Germany," Italy reminded him, "weren't you going on about wanting to be back inside already?"

Germany collected himself again and continued onward to the front door, the siren call of an air conditioned house now back in mind.

"Oh c'mon now, Romano," said Spain. As soon as they'd come in—Germany was very glad for the sudden blast of cool air—Romano dropped the bag Italy had forced on him and went to kick off his shoes. By the time he'd turned around Spain was holding the bag out to him again with a smile on his face. "I'm sorry, but help me out and take this back to the guest room, would you? And these suitcases." Spain passed everything he'd been holding to him and Romano seemed for a moment too shocked to even react. "Show them the way there while you're at it, will you?"

"Why do _I _have to carry all this crap to the back? This isn't my house, you ass!"

"I'm not trying to mean, I'm just trusting you to be a good host for a little while so I can get lunch started." Spain brushed some of the hair from Romano's face, seemingly without thinking about it, and Romano began to look steadily more irritated. Germany had to admit he could sympathize with why Romano was taking this badly, and maybe Spain was expecting too much from him too soon, but then again it was entirely Romano's fault for not cooperating in the first place. "Germany told me on the phone he eats lunch around noon, so I thought we'd eat a little earlier today, alright? I know you're not going to complain about that too, are you?"

Spain shooed them all away and just as he said, made straight for the kitchen—Romano bitterly watched the place where he'd disappeared for a few moments before he turned and snapped, "well come on already!"

"Spain's always had such a pretty house, Germany," Italy said knowledgeably, hurrying along like nothing had happened that he wasn't used to. "Well, he lived somewhere _really _fancy back when he was powerful, and his house didn't look so nice during the civil war, but I think he does a good job of keeping up the place even if no one lives with him anymore. Maybe it's also because Romano doesn't clean the place anymore that it looks nice, now that I think about it. And oh, see all this cute stuff he has everywhere? Spain likes buying things from artists in town and from antique shops and from all over the place, so long as he thinks it might look good on the walls. It gives the place a lot of flavor and personality, don't you think? And I know you're probably thinking his house looks old but it's not really, it's actually just traditional and I think that's part of its charm—"

"You're saying the same sort of crap Spain always says," Romano interrupted, loudly. "If you want to know why he really keeps his house this way it's because he's just stuck in the past and he won't move anywhere where he can't grow stuff."

Italy's smiled faltered for a moment, but then he looked at Germany again.

"But I think that's a good reason to stay where you are, don't you?"

Germany nodded slightly, just trying to take everything in as they went further into the house. It wasn't every day that he got to see a Mediterranean home so full of character, and he found himself liking the contrast of bright walls and more richly colored furniture. It felt like the sun and sky was still inside the house, air conditioning notwithstanding.

"Here's your room," Romano announced. He opened a door and jabbed his thumb inside. "And you." Germany pulled his gaze away from the room's interior, with its wide bed and row of plants on the windowsill, to see Romano now pointing down the hall, at yet another room. This house had clearly had far more people living in it in the past. "_Your_ room's the one with the door open down that way."

"Romano, Spain didn't say anything about two rooms," Italy pointed out.

"This one was _going _to be mine," said Romano, "but guess what, turns out it's yours now. So congratulations."

"Wait." Italy's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment as he tried to understand. "Wait, why aren't we sharing a room?"

"There's plenty of rooms. Spain's got like a million of them. There's no reason to share."

"It's not a problem," said Germany, waving his hand around. He didn't know why this idea sat with him so poorly, unless he wanted to admit to himself that he'd assumed he'd share a room with Italy from the start. "I honestly wouldn't mind. I wouldn't want us to take up your room when we don't need to."

Germany knew that sharing a room would be the best way to maximize his time spent with Italy—from a purely logical stand point, of course—yet he had plenty of illogical reasons to want to share a room with him as well. Sharing a room also meant he could sleep in with Italy and not feel guilty about it for once—maybe he could even try lying in bed and doing nothing, an art form which Italy had long since perfected. It sounded like a sufficiently lazy thing to while on vacation, anyway, since most of the time Germany wouldn't consider doing such a thing unless he was deathly ill.

"Well according to _Spain_," Romano said, "I'm supposed to be playing the gracious host now." He threw Italy's bag through the doorway, aiming for the bed, but it slid across the sheets and landed on the floor on the other side with a thump. "So I'm telling you that you both get separate rooms."

"Um," Italy said, watching the fate of his bag, "that doesn't really make sense, Romano. If you're giving up your room then where are you gonna sleep?"

"I'll sleep wherever I want. But you aren't. You're sleeping here and Germany's sleeping down the hall because I said so."

_Ah._ It dawned on Germany that this probably had _very little _to do with who slept where, and a lot more to do with just making sure Romano got his way.

"Are you entirely sure this is necessary?" Germany sighed.

"Yeah, come on, let Germany stay with me," begged Italy. "Germany's already really far from home and being in Spain's house probably makes him feel weird so what if he gets lonely without me? And don't worry, Germany!" Italy quickly turned to him. "I don't mind sharing a room with you! We like sharing, don't we?"

"Yeah," Romano snapped, "I bet you _don't _mind sharing."

They all fell silent for a moment, and Germany could feel his cheeks tinge pink.

"You're doing this on purpose, Romano!" Italy accused, flailing his arms. "All I want is for Germany and I to have lots of time together while we're here! Just because you've always got to be nasty to him doesn't mean you have to tell him what to do!"

"Germany's room is down that way," Romano said, sternly. "And if you don't like it you'll have to argue with me about it."

For a moment, Germany really did want to argue about it, but he remembered that arguing with Romano had always been about as effective as arguing with a brick wall. So maybe he should just put his luggage down inside the room and shut the door. Maybe be should skip the part about the luggage and just hit Romano in the face. No, forget all that, he'd rather have just gone back to the beginning of this conversation and hit him really hard in the face then and there. Now that was a tempting idea.

"Fine," said Germany. He realized, sadly, that if even he couldn't be mature about this then there was no hope for any of them. He made up his mind that it would be easier admit defeat for now and talk to Spain about it later. "Alright."

Italy jerked toward him, opening his mouth to protest, but Germany shook his head.

"It's fine. I'll just go put my stuff away, it isn't a big deal. Let's not fight."

Germany turned around and made for the room that was _supposed_ to be for both of them—it was just as nice as the other one, so it wasn't like he was being forced to sleep in a closet, at least. Germany went in and closed the door behind him just as he heard Italy shout "_Romano!_" and the subsequent argument exploding into full force down at the other end of the hall.

* * *

><p><strong>Culture Notes<strong>

For all you Americans out there, 32°C = 90°F**  
><strong>


	2. Chapter 2

"Well," Germany said, chancing a discreet glance over his shoulder, "it looks like he's calmed down now, at least."

"He always does," sighed Italy.

Spain had apparently meant to prepare lunch by himself, but since allowing Romano to socialize unchaperoned had turned out so poorly, there'd been a change of plans. Now everyone had been herded into the kitchen and given jobs to do—Germany and Italy were sent to the kitchen island to chop ingredients and Romano was at the stove helping Spain prepare the shrimp and scallops. Though he was certainly glad for it, Germany wondered how Romano had managed to go from screaming at his brother to perfectly amicable in the span of only a few minutes. Maybe Italians were even more mysterious than he knew.

"The fact we'll be eating soon probably helped, though," Italy added. Cooking had always been one area where he excelled, so Germany had wisely allowed him to take care of the onion while he cut up the garlic. "He knows Spain's making his paella specifically because he wants you to give it a try but I bet Romano's the most excited to eat it."

"Really?" Germany looked again, and now the other two were chattering to each other in Spanish. Given what he knew of Spain's history with Romano, Germany had long assumed that Romano understood Spanish, but he'd never witnessed him actually speaking it. "I thought since it's paella he'd want to eat something else. Romano always seemed like a picky eater to me."

"He is, but he also tends to exaggerate." Italy had deliberately switched to his heavily accented—though very endearing—version of German, to keep Romano from hearing. "He might say he only eats Italian food but if Spain puts something in front of him he'll probably eat it." He laughed. "He likes seafood especially. I always see him going down to the market on weekends and fighting the old ladies for the good stuff."

"Speaking of seafood," said Germany, also switching languages, "I've heard that squid goes in paella sometimes? Is that true?"

"Yeah?"

"Well." Germany liked seafood every once in a while, but when he tried to imagine himself eating squid he could practically feel the tentacles wriggling down his throat. "I mean, it's not that I have a problem with Spanish food, but I can't say squid sounds very appetizing—"

"Oh, so you're the one being the picky eater now?" Italy teased. "Don't worry, Germany. I don't think Spain wouldn't get too weird with what he puts in so long as you're eating with us. And if there's something in it you don't like anyway no one's going to be offended if you pick around it, or at least I wouldn't be! Though if you really hate it you can always just eat bread I guess, Spain always has some out on the table."

"I don't think it'll be so bad I'll need to resort to _that_," Germany assured him.

"Romano would." Italy shook his head and passed a tomato for Germany to chop up—a high honor in this household, probably. "Spain told me that Romano did that for two weeks straight when he first went to live with him. He wouldn't eat anything Spain gave him. Even when Spain asked his cooks to make something Italian none of them knew how to make anything the way Romano wanted. So for two whole weeks the only thing he ate was bread."

Germany grimaced. He didn't think he could be that stubborn even if he tried.

"Then what got Romano to start eating normally again?"

Italy smiled.

"He got a little more willing to try new food after Spain introduced him to tomatoes."

"What are you both babbling about over there?" Romano demanded, loudly. "Are you finished cutting or not?"

* * *

><p>Eating with everyone turned out to be pleasant enough, if just a little different from what Germany was used to. Once Spain had set the paella out in the middle of the table and said '<em>¡Buen provecho!<em>' everyone immediately began serving themselves. Germany went through the motions of filling up his plate, but he hesitated to start eating like the others—he decided to observe instead, to see what sort of table manners were expected of him.

Germany decided to give up on this plan a few minutes later, as it seemed that if any mysterious table manners did exist here, they had yet to reveal themselves. Either this was meant to be a very informal meal, he thought, or the only rules in Spain's home were to keep your elbows off the table and talk as much as possible.

"So what exactly was that shouting match about earlier?" Spain asked, merrily. "Just the usual?"

Germany had to keep himself from spitting up the first bite of his lunch.

"Maybe we shouldn't talk about it now," he said, quickly. They'd made this much progress toward peace and now he was bringing it up again? "It's already done, so—"

"The usual," Italy affirmed. "Romano was just being an asshole."

"I was making some necessary adjustments for my _sanity_," Romano shot back, pointing accusingly with his fork. "And Veneziano started yelling at me for it."

"What did you do, Romano?"

"You're siding with _him_ on this?"

"You just admitted to doing _something_, didn't you? I'm not taking sides, I'm asking what happened."

In a normal household, perhaps, this sort of talk would not have been appropriate mealtime conversation. In Germany's own home, bringing up an argument again once it was over was like asking for another fight to break out and a few glasses to be broken, but not here. Now that Spain had brought it up everyone just kept talking it and yet no one was raising their voices or getting mad. It was like watching a bizarre therapy session unfolding right in front of him, and ten minutes of silence on Germany's part later, Romano was actually sort of apologizing.

"Well, _sorry_," he snapped. "I didn't know you'd go fucking ballistic over it."

"I'm sorry too," said Italy. "I don't usually yell and I shouldn't have. But thank you for being sorry."

"Whatever. You're still sleeping in my room," Romano told him. "I'm only sorry you had to go and get pissed off."

"I'm still not sure I understand," Spain said, puzzled. "Ita, if Romanito is trying to give you his room, then what's there to get so mad about?"

"Spain," Germany tried, "may I ask you something?"

"Yes?"

"Is it alright with you if Italy and I share a room?"

"Oh." Spain looked back and forth between Germany and Romano. "Of course it's alright. I thought that was the plan all along. If that's the case then why are you fighting so hard to give up your room, Romano? Did you want to sleep in my room?"

"That's got nothing to do with it!" Romano spun around so fast in his chair it made a nasty creaking sound. "I'm just telling them to get separate rooms and I don't care if I have to sleep somewhere else because of it!"

"Well that still means you're giving up your room, doesn't it? You can still sleep with me if you want, I wouldn't mind."

"_Fine._" Now Romano was bright red and stuffing shrimp into his mouth. "Can we stop talking about this? I don't even care anymore, Jesus."

But the look he shot Germany clearly, _clearly _said just the opposite.

"Well then," said Spain, brightly, "is that all settled? What else do we have to talk about? Germany, do you like your food?"

"It's delicious," said Germany. He meant it.

* * *

><p>Italy threw off his shirt and proudly announced, "and now for Germany's first ever siesta!"<p>

"I don't think I want it to be," said Germany. "If all three of you are going to sleep I'll just get my laptop and get some work done in the meantime."

"Working while you're on vacation is illegal as long as you're in this house." Italy took Germany by the hands and dragged him into the bedroom. "Romano already went upstairs with Spain and he can't complain if he doesn't know we slept together, right?"

"I'm not going to sleep with you. I'm not tired."

"You're _gonna_ be tired," Italy warned. "Dinner at Spain's house is at ten and then bedtime's around one in the morning."

"…You're joking."

"Nope!" Italy dropped onto the bed and started pulling off his socks. "Around here we sleep when it's hottest and stay up extra late! And since it's the weekend Spain and my brother are probably gonna be up even later."

"This is insane." Germany had expected _differences_, coming here. He did not expect to be eating in the middle of the night and for his very routine sleep schedule to be turned on its head. "I'm used to eating dinner at six, for one thing. What am I supposed to do, just starve in the meantime?"

"Well, usually there's snacks before dinner. But you should sleep with me so you can conserve energy!" Italy patted the other side of the bed and fluttered his eyelashes at him in an attempt to make it look enticing. "Naps are good for you Germany, didn't you know? They help you think better and they reduce the risk of heart attacks!"

"You and I can't have heart attacks."

"Oh come on," Italy said, laughing. "Doesn't the heat like this make you feel tired?"

"The heat just makes me feel hot." Germany raked his hand through his hair, wondering what he was going to do. He hadn't taken a nap in years. "I swear I'm not tired. Even if I lay down and try I don't think I'd be able to sleep."

"You don't know what'll happen until you try, Germany. C'mon, if you don't at least try to take a nap then you're going to end up being the only one asleep while we're all up. And then we can't have fun together."

Italy pouted at him. Germany sometimes wondered whether he knew the terrible power of that look or whether it just always made him resemble a sad puppy by accident.

"You look like a sad puppy," Germany told him. "But fine, alright, alright." He took a deep breath and came to sit on the bed as though it took a great deal of effort. "I'll try it. I'll lay down and close my eyes but I can't promise anything."

"Yay!" Italy wiggled out of his pants and underwear all at once, as though in celebration. "You'll be glad you took a nap, Germany, I swear you will!"

He dived in under the sheets and reappeared a moment later, grinning. Germany sighed and took a couple pillows for himself, fluffing them up and stretching before he settled down on them.

"Hold on, Germany," Italy said, propping himself up on an elbow. "You're missing a very important step here."

"What? I'm lying down and everything."

Italy rolled over twice—he got the blankets twisted around him in the process—to put himself right up against Germany's ear.

"To have a _proper _siesta you have to be naked."

Germany flopped over onto his other side and kept his eyes firmly closed.

"I am not taking my clothes off in any way, shape, or form," he said. "Especially not in someone else's house."

"What's the matter? I did."

"Yes, I noticed. You always take your clothes off in other people's houses. But I'm still not going to do it."

"Well you have to get comfortable so you can sleep or you're not really trying." Italy scooted even closer. "And you don't normally sleep in your clothes, do you Germany?"

"I also don't normally sleep in the nude."

"Then you should sleep in your underwear at least! Come on, you're gonna get marks on you if you sleep with everything still on."

Germany sprung into a sitting position when Italy ran his hand over his abdomen and tugged demonstratively on his belt.

"For God's sake, Italy. If I get into my underwear will you go to sleep and let me be?"

Italy smiled brightly.

"I'll be extra good if you take your underwear off too."

"Not a fair trade," Germany muttered, but he stood up to undress anyway. It wasn't as if he'd _actually_ rather sleep in his clothes, or that he was a prude about these things—he had his share of nude beaches, after all—but he'd always preferred to be properly dressed at other people's houses at least. It just seemed like good manners to him, as natural as please and thank you and putting down the toilet seat when he was finished. Still, Italy was always lazing around in as little clothing as possible, no matter what Germany said about it, so maybe it was true that some people on this planet took no issue with taking off as much clothing as was necessary to be comfortable. Maybe Germany was the one being unreasonable, for once.

"You're giggling back there," said Germany, turning his head with suspicion. "I can hear you, you know."

"Well, you're acting all nervous!" Italy sat up and put his hand over his mouth, trying to control his laughter. "You're just taking your clothes off, what's the matter?"

"Well sorry," Germany sighed, and went back to studying the opposite wall. He couldn't really think of a good reason why he needed to turn the other way to take off his pants. It just seemed more decent that way, somehow. "I'm usually not being watched when I take off my clothes. It's not normal to me."

Once Germany had kicked away his pants and returned to the bed, Italy wasted no time in snuggling up to him—Germany went a little red when his thigh touched Italy's naked one.

"Don't be embarrassed, Germany," Italy told him. "You've let me see you a lot more naked than you are now, remember?"

"I do recall something like that happening, yes." Germany sincerely hoped they were not about to get on this topic, because Italy was already very naked and he didn't want to get too excited right now, thank you very much. "Just go to sleep, Italy. Don't let me keep you up."

"Okay." Italy patted his cheek. "Stop worrying now, Germany. Just think relaxing thoughts and breathe deep and you'll be asleep in no time."

Germany sighed again.

"I'll try."

Italy smiled with his eyes closed.

"Sleep well, Germany."

"You too."

Germany shut his eyes and shifted around until he was more comfortable, but as he laid there all he could think about was how _stupid_ this was, because if he wasn't going to sleep this was all a waste of time. But if he was going to think that way, what was a vacation, really, if not already a massive and intentional waste of time? He decided he might as well _try_, since no matter what he did he wouldn't be going back to his house and his dogs and his normal life until the weekend was over—

But now he was wondering whether Prussia was going to remember when his dogs needed let out. No, no, no, he told himself. He could call in an hour or two, but right now he had to relax and fall asleep or else he was going to be completely off schedule from anyone else and potentially ruin everything. Germany changed tactics and decided to do deep breathing exercises, like he'd read in books about managing stress. Take a breath, count to ten, let it out. Repeat. Repeat.

It still wasn't working. Now he was even more stressed out that he couldn't calm down. Italy's breathing had evened out, so he was probably already asleep—how much time had passed? He opened his eyes but he couldn't see a clock anywhere in the room. Who didn't have a clock in their bedroom?

Germany shut his eyes again. He could still taste paella in his mouth. He licked his teeth and flopped over the other direction. He was used to sleeping on his right anyway, not his left.

He flopped back over.

He had a feeling he'd be lying awake for a long, long time.

* * *

><p><strong>Culture Notes<strong>

*Paella is a rice dish prepared in a paellera and is a very iconic dish that originated in Spain. Seafood paella is a variant of the more traditional paella valenciana, which does not contain any seafood.

*There usually aren't many rules for what counts as acceptable meal time conversation in Spain. There will be plenty of pleasant conversation, but people might be debating on one side of the table while the other side delves into personal topics, with everyone talking over each other all the while. (Contrast this with other countries where everyone around the table takes turns talking and certain subjects are considered rude in such a setting.) The meal Germany participated in was pretty informal, however.

*Siestas are a big tradition in Spain, even if today the time for siesta is often used to just relax or to spend time with family for a long midday meal. In summer in particular, though, lots of Spaniards do nap—when it's very hot and the big lunch you just had is making you drowsy, getting some sleep just makes sense. By the way, shops will close down during this period, (though restaurants tend to do so just a little later, to better serve people out for lunch), so if you're visiting Spain you might as well try napping yourself. However, don't think because Spaniards take naps they just want extra sleep. Because of the siesta, Spaniards also tend to stay up extra late at night, when it's cooler and more pleasant. In a big city like Madrid, people will still be out till three in the morning and later, enjoying the nightlife.


	3. Chapter 3

Germany opened his eyes and felt oddly sluggish as he turned over and saw that Italy was sitting on the bed beside him, already dressed.

"Germany!" he said, looking excited. "Are you awake finally?"

"Oh God." Germany drew his arm up over his eyes, realizing that something terrible had happened: he'd _actually_ fallen asleep, and now rather than feeling refreshed and ready to handle the rest of the evening he only felt groggy and exhausted. "How long was I out?"

"You slept an hour longer than I did." Italy looked slightly concerned as Germany began to claw at his face. "I thought about getting you up a few times but you looked like you really wanted to sleep and you were so cute I couldn't do it. Was that bad?"

Germany groaned and dragged himself up, hair falling into his eyes. Italy crawled forward gingerly and looked him over, apparently trying to assess the damage.

"I think I have a headache from sleeping too much," Germany said. "Is that possible?"

"I don't know. I never knew people could be that bad at taking a nap." Italy chewed his lip. "You're not mad at me, are you?"

"I'm not mad," Germany sighed. "I'm just tired now, which I'm pretty sure is the opposite of how a nap is supposed to work."

Italy looked at him guiltily and let himself fall into his lap, putting his arms around Germany's waist and squeezing tight.

"I'm sorry, I know I should've woken you up, I'm sorry, I really am, but I got distracted because Spain decided to make a cake for later and we messed it up somehow even though it came out of a box—"

"It's alright," Germany said. He patted Italy awkwardly on the head and wondered how he'd missed all that, assuming there'd been yelling and possibly explosions coming from the kitchen. "I'm the one who doesn't know how to nap correctly. And I'm not mad, I just—people drink coffee around here, don't they? I feel like I'm going to need some just to make it to dinner."

"Oh!" Italy immediately perked back up, smiling his usual sunny smile. "Yes, of course we drink coffee here! Spain drinks lots of it, I'm sure he wouldn't mind making you some!"

"_Veneziano_, where the _hell _is—"

The bedroom door abruptly opened and Romano burst in, looking fit to strangle the very first person he saw. Unfortunately that person happened to be Germany, who was not only still in his underwear but also still in Italy's room and with Italy still very much on top of him.

"Uh," said Italy. Romano had frozen in place, mouth open. "Where's what, Romano?"

"God _dammit,_" Romano groaned. "Sunday _cannot_ come soon enough."

He stormed back out, slamming the door shut behind him.

"I'm starting to think Romano's just in a bad mood today," sighed Italy, as he hopped off the bed. He paused for a moment and added, "Maybe you should put your pants back on though, Germany."

* * *

><p>"That jackass just—fucking—<em>left<em>." Italy handed Romano the carafe from the dishwasher and he slammed it into place with an unnecessary amount of force. "He didn't say a fucking _word_ to me, and he's just _gone_."

"He probably just forgot to say anything before he left," Italy said, trying to be helpful. "He does that sometimes. He'll be back, Romano, don't worry."

"Fuck him and fuck _you_," Romano told him. Germany idly wondered if he should start counting the number of expletives per minute coming out of his mouth—he was probably breaking some sort of record right about now. "He left me alone with you two assholes and what's the _first fucking thing_ I see when you're alone together?"

"Germany just woke up, Romano, you don't know what you're talking about." Italy calmly pushed a button on the coffee maker and it started. "I swear we weren't doing anything. Stop assuming things, okay?"

Romano threw up his arms and began to violently search the shelves in the refrigerator. Italy sighed deeply. Germany yawned.

"Romano, please stop getting upset, okay?" Italy begged. "You've been grumpy ever since we got here and I know you're not like this normally. Plus, whenever you're upset you always stop paying attention and you end up breaking something."

"Shut _up_, no I don't," Romano snapped at him. "And I'm not getting upset, I'm fuckin'—oh my God. That was glass, fuck!"

"Well don't step in it, let me get a paper towel—"

Italy stooped down to clean it up for him, but this only seemed to serve to make Romano angrier. He reached into the refrigerator, finally found what he was looking for and slammed it down on the table.

"I've had _enough_ of this shit," he snarled. "I'm setting some ground rules, and you both better follow them if you don't want me to _personally_ have you thrown out of this house for all of _eternity_. Got it?"

"It's Spain's house," Italy reminded him, but he sat anyway, ready to listen. "Why did you get out frosting, Romano?"

"Because we ruined that fucking cake and now it's just going to go to waste otherwise, isn't it?" Romano went to get a spoon out of a drawer, and before Germany could even comprehend what he was about to do, he'd already peeled by the lid and shoveled a spoonful into his mouth.

"_Ew_," moaned Italy. "Romano, that's gross! You're not supposed to—"

"I'll _tell_ you what's gross," Romano said, loudly, using his spoon to point again. "What's gross is you and him, prancing around like you've got no fucking sense of decency. You think I don't _know_ what kind of shit you and this asshole both go off and do when I'm not looking?"

"Here's an idea," Germany interrupted, rubbing his temples. "Can we pretend for a moment that we _aren't_ all in kindergarten and stop _yelling_ at each other?"

"That's right! I agree with Germany!" Italy glared at Romano, and Germany had an awful feeling this was not going to be conducive to ending the argument. "We weren't even doing anything this time! Stop acting crazy, Romano!"

"I'm not crazy!" Romano shouted, though the chocolate smeared on his mouth and the hysterical edge to his voice certainly weren't helping his case. "You two always get like this whenever you're together and it makes me sick to my stomach! Spain's expecting me to get along with you and I can't fucking do it if all you've done since you've got here is piss me off on purpose!"

"Romano, I'm trying to tell you we _still_ haven't even done anything!" Italy cried, exasperated. "You've got everything wrong and you don't even know how to listen! All you do is yell at people when you're the one who's wrong!"

"Um," said Spain, from the doorway, with a box in his hands and a newspaper under his arm, "is this a bad time? Why is Romano eating frosting, exactly?"

"Spain!" Italy scraped back his chair and jumped up while frosting fell unattractively from Romano's mouth. "Welcome back! We were just making some coffee and wondering where you went!"

"That's not exactly what I would have called it," said Spain, dubiously. He put the box and newspaper down and smiled as he wiped a little sweat off his jaw. "Sorry, I ended up being gone a lot longer than I thought I'd be. I went down to the bakery to get us another cake since we ruined the first one but then I ended up running into France and he kept me for a while. Were there any casualties while I was out?"

"Just a jelly jar," said Italy. "What was France doing in Madrid?"

"He said something about—um, the mysteries of the universe, I think?" Spain shrugged. "I don't know why, I think he was just being France. He always wanders around and shows up when you don't want him to."

"Did he want to talk to you?"

"Yeah, I think so. He asked me why you and Germany came through earlier so I ended up having to tell him he wasn't invited. I guess Prussia must've let something slip to him because then he got all dramatic and said he's part of the family too, and I know he is, but France would have kept things a little _too_ friendly around here, I think—Romano, would you _please_ stop eating the frosting? You're making me feel queasy over here."

Germany looked back at him, fully expecting for Romano to be beside himself with rage and about to blow a gasket. But he wasn't: Romano and Italy normally made very dissimilar expressions, but right now the look on Romano's face struck Germany as being familiar. It was the exact same face that Italy always made—same woeful eyes, same quivering lip, same everything—whenever Germany left him without saying where he'd gone. It was a completely stupid sort of reaction, Germany had always thought, considering how unlikely it was that he wouldn't be coming back, but on Italy's face it had always been kind of adorable. On Romano's, it suddenly seemed sad.

"What? What's with that look?" Spain asked, smiling. He plucked the spoon out of Romano's hand and tossed it into the sink. "Are you going to tell me you don't like coffee cake now?"

"Um, Spain," Germany attempted.

"We might as well have some now," said Spain, still cheerful as ever. He went over and opened the cake box as Romano's mouth opened and shut uselessly—Germany was starting to worry Spain really hadn't caught on to how upset he was. "We'll sit and eat cake and try to get along again for a while. How's that sound?"

"Why the fuck," Romano finally burst out, rumbling like a thunderstorm, "why the _fuck_ didn't you tell me you were leaving?"

Spain thrust a slice of cake at him.

"I said I was sorry, so let's calm down and eat," he said. "How big a slice would you like, Italy? Germany?"

* * *

><p>"Oooh!" Italy spread his arms wide and closed his eyes, letting the wind hit him. "Feel how much cooler it got! I wonder if it's really gonna rain tomorrow?"<p>

"It smells like it, so maybe," said Germany. He leaned up against a vine-covered column and looked out on the lawn—it really was a lot cooler, and now that the sun had almost set and everything had darkened he could see fireflies glowing in the grass.

"You can smell rain? Really?"

"You're telling me you've never noticed?" Germany cast a sidelong look at him. "And after how ever many years you've been alive?"

"Nearly two millenniums now!" Italy's prideful look faded somewhat when he stopped to think about what he was saying. "Well, maybe I've just never really paid attention to it. Or maybe your nose is better than mine. What's rain supposed to smell like then, exactly?"

Germany shrugged.

"I don't think I could describe it well."

"Can you try?"

"Well it's—crisp? I guess?" Germany tried gesturing with his hands but he realized that was probably the opposite of helpful. "Or it's like how an old battery smells. If it hasn't rained for a while sometimes it smells like dust, too."

"Old batteries," Italy said, blinking. "Old batteries have a smell too?"

"I think the smell of rain is actually the smell of ozone, though," Germany pushed on. There was no stopping this train wreck now that he'd started it. "I think that's what it was. Rain's just water, and I don't think water has a smell, so it's something—something that has to do with ozone in the atmosphere. I don't really know, it was kind of a scientific explanation I read somewhere—"

"So you're saying rain doesn't actually have a smell?" Italy's mouth twitched into a smile. "Is that right?"

"I don't know _what_ I'm saying anymore. Forget it, if I read that somewhere a long time ago God knows how many times scientists would've proven it wrong by now."

Italy shrugged his shoulders and kept smiling.

"So do I have a smell?"

"I feel like our entire conversation thus far has been completely pointless," declared Germany. "Let's just go back in, maybe we can get into another fight with your brother or something. That would at least get us somewhere, even if it's backwards."

"Germany," Italy sang, "I think you're avoiding the question—"

"I'm not avoiding it as much as I'm refusing to answer."

"So I _do_ have a smell?" Italy pranced closer to him, grinning mischievously, and Germany took the opportunity to sit down on a patio chair and think about what he'd done to deserve this. "What do I smell like?"

"You can't be serious. What if I say it's a bad smell?"

"Then you'd probably lie about it, wouldn't you?"

Germany raised an eyebrow at him.

"No I wouldn't. Would I?"

"Well, I don't think you'd say the truth if you thought it'd only hurt my feelings," Italy amended. He put his hand on Germany's knee. "Just to be nice and all."

"That's news to me," said Germany, quietly. It was beginning to look very distinctly like they might be about to kiss, and this was concerning. Kissing Italy had always been very dangerous, after all, and Germany knew that whenever Italy got close like this and started doing nice things with his mouth, all of Germany's normally sensible thoughts tended to become very disoriented and confused and turn themselves the wrong way around. Increasingly mysterious things might happen next, like Germany kissing him back. They might end up being at it for far longer than any sane person should want to spend with his mouth on someone else's.

"It's true! You're always trying very hard to be nice to me." Italy dropped himself sideways into Germany's lap and put both legs over the armrest. He laughed when he noticed the look on Germany's face. "What? What did you think I was coming over here to do?"

"I don't know, but there's other chairs besides me, go find one," Germany muttered. "There, that wasn't nice at all."

Italy laughed again and moved in closer.

"But you always make for the best kind of chair. Most chairs aren't warm and they don't answer when you talk to them."

"Well heaven forbid you'd ever meet someone who makes a better chair than I do."

"Of course I won't," said Italy. "I wouldn't sit on just anyone, you know."

"I'm—glad it's quiet out here," Germany forced out, in an effort to change the subject. "I don't think I could have stood another minute of all of you going on about the World Cup again."

"I understand," said Italy, nodding sagely. "I don't think Spain was trying to rub it in or anything, it's just that he still talks about it to anyone who'll listen."

"That's what I was assuming. Romano, though—"

"At least he was acting better once Spain got back, don't you think?"

"I don't think you were hearing the same conversation I was." Germany frowned at him. "Did you not catch the part where he was trying to negotiate with Spain to make us leave before football comes on Sunday?"

"Well, I wasn't paying _that_ close attention to Romano. We were talking about football, after all." Italy looked up at Germany through his hair. "So are you ready to answer my question now?"

"What question?"

"What do I smell like?" Italy grinned and made a sweeping gesture with his arms as though to present himself to him. "See, I'm right here you so you can take a big whiff and tell me."

"Don't be disgusting," Germany said, a little faintly. "You're not giving up on that are you?"

But Germany still cracked a smile, and Italy smiled right back.

"Can we hug now, Captain?"

Now hugging he could deal with. Germany considered hugging to be much safer than kissing, even if he didn't particularly like to call it hugging: he liked to call it _holding_, because that way it sounded like it had more of a purpose. He'd be happy to hold Italy for hours as long as he kept in mind that he might very well fall out of lap if he didn't.

"This is nice," Italy said, giggly. "I like this. We should go on lots more vacations together. You work too much and then there's no time for stuff like this, you know?"

"I know."

Italy swung his legs happily and held on extra tight. Germany breathed against Italy's hair and considered that maybe he really should try to do this more often. It felt good, and that was reason enough, wasn't it?

"I'm sorry about Romano, though," Italy added, nuzzling his shoulder. "Spain teases Romano too much sometimes but Romano's been a real jerk today."

It took Germany a full minute of peaceful quiet after that statement to remember that there were still other people in the world besides them. In fact, he and Italy they were only the width of a glass door away from a house containing two particular individuals whom Germany did not want to be witnessing this.

"They're in the sitting room, aren't they," said Germany, freezing.

"Yep." Italy looked over with a lazy glance. "They sat down on the sofa a while ago but I don't think they've realized we're still this close. I said we'd probably go see the tomatoes but we didn't really get that far."

"Whose fault is that?" Germany broke away from him and turned himself around far enough to see for himself, just in case. Fortunately they were facing the opposite direction and completely caught up in their own conversation. "C'mon, Italy, let's move away from here before they notice us."

"Aw, why?" Italy put both arms around Germany's neck. "Don't worry about them, they're just talking."

"I'm not worried about what they're doing," Germany said, strained. "I'm worried about what _we're_ doing. If Romano sees us like this he's going to come out here and strangle us both with our intestines."

"No he wouldn't. He'd only do that to you."

"And _that's_ your reason why I shouldn't be worried?"

Italy pointed suddenly, eyes going wide.

"Ooh, Germany, look quick, bet you've never seen Romano do _that_ before."

Germany looked back again, curiosity getting the better of him, though for a second he was confused about what he was supposed to be seeing. It was just Spain and Romano talking animatedly to each other, gesturing, and then Spain said something else and—Romano was smiling. _Smiling._

"Oh," said Germany, amazed. "I didn't know Romano could do that with his face."

"He _does_ smile some of the time," Italy told him, grinning. "Mostly when he's trying to talk to a Belgium or some other girl, but sometimes he smiles at me and Spain too. See the difference it makes?"

It really did make an unbelievable difference to see a smile on Romano's face, rather than the usual scowl. It highlighted all the ways in which his features were similar to Italy's, and that just made it all the more endearing. This smile of his was in fact so deceptively pleasant—_cute_, one might even say—that Germany could have mistaken him for someone who had never been rude or spiteful a day in his life.

There had been times when Germany sometimes caught himself wondering why Spain hadn't just given up on Romano a long time ago, but maybe this was part of the reason. Either way, Germany was going to blame the novelty of seeing such an expression on Romano's face for making him initially so confused when the smile gradually faded and turned into an odd, tender look. Germany became far, _far_ more intensely confused as he watched Spain put his thumb on Romano's jaw and Romano leaned in to kiss him.

* * *

><p><strong>Culture Notes<strong>

*Just in case you didn't know, football (soccer) is HUGE in Spain and Germany, as well as most of the world. When the Spanish and German teams played against each other in the semi-finals of the 2010 FIFA World Cup, the Spanish team had never made it to the finals before so they desperately wanted to win. In the end the Spanish team won 1-0, and later went on to beat the Netherlands team in the finals. *toots vuzuzela*


	4. Chapter 4

"Wha—"

"_Aw_!" Italy trilled. "Aren't they cute?"

"Oh my _God_," said Germany. He spun back around in the chair, feeling as if his jaw had malfunctioned. "_Oh my God_, they're—they're really—but _he's_ supposed to be—what about being _Catholic_?"

Italy blinked at him, puzzled.

"Catholic?"

"You know—the Catholic—" Germany dug the heels of his palms into his eyeballs as if to try to assure they would never betray him like this ever again. "I just thought—after _all_ Romano's been _saying _about us—"

"Oh, that's not a Catholic thing," said Italy, shaking his head. "That's more of a Romano hating you thing. Don't worry about it. Are you worrying about it?"

"I'm not—I'm not saying I'm _against _it," Germany said. He felt like he was trying more to reason with himself than anyone else. "I'm just—God. I thought maybe Spain—or Romano—I thought they must have—I don't—my coherency. I just realized. It's gone. Forever."

"Well just calm down first and try again. It'll come back, Germany, it always does."

"Why am I so traumatized over this?" Germany resumed holding his head in his hands and groaned. "I _knew_. I knew they had to be—_something_, I didn't know what, but seeing it in front of me—_why are you still watching them?_ Are they still _going_?"

"Yup, still going." Italy bounced a little in Germany's lap as he stretched to see better. "You looked away right when Spain started kissing him back. They're just kind of cuddly right now but I think Spain's just about to—ooh, yup, Spain pushed Romano down so I can't see them anymore, but I'd bet they're still kissing."

Germany felt his throat going very dry. It took every ounce of his self control not to turn back around and see for himself.

"And is this a normal thing to see around here?"

"Well." Italy laughed a little sheepishly. "I only found them out 'cause I walked in on them making out once, so I guess you could say it's normal. Romano was really embarrassed about it but Spain was okay with having me know—he had to tell Romano it wouldn't do him any good to try drowning himself in the bathtub or anything—"

"I think I can deal with pretending I never saw this for Romano's sake, then," said Germany. "In fact I think I will do just that. Italy, we are leaving _right now_ and we're not coming back until this weekend is over if we have—_oh my god whatareyoudoing_?"

"What?" Italy didn't even look at him because he was busy waving into the house now. "Spain gave me a thumbs-up so I gave him one back."

All joking aside, Germany could be _just_ as good as Italy at retreating if he wanted to. He had Italy by the wrist and was dragging him down the lawn before he could even remember to breathe again.

* * *

><p>Tomatoes, in Germany's opinion, were the sort of food that a person would not want to eat just on their own. He liked them <em>in <em>things, like in soups and on sandwiches, but he'd never thought of a tomato as something he'd like to just bite into and eat raw. Certain people did, apparently, but Germany was just not one of them.

"Oh, look at these pretty ones! I think I recognize them too, Spain said they were supposed to be extra sweet!" Italy pulled one straight off the vine and bit into it, juice dribbling down his chin. "Dhey are! C'mon, try a fhew, you'll like 'em!"

"I don't think it's very polite to just take them like that."

Italy swallowed and shook his head, reaching toward a new tomato plant. There was just enough light left to see that most of the tomatoes around them were still yellow or orange, but just a few here and there looked ripe enough to eat.

"Don't worry about it, Germany! Some tomatoes just get ripe before the others do and if no one takes them they'll end up rotted or eaten by bugs." He passed a handful to Germany, smiling. "And even if we take a bunch I don't think Spain will mind, he lets the neighbors come and pick some to take home with them if they want. It's not like he can eat all of these himself, you know?"

Germany didn't doubt that for a moment. It was small field, relatively speaking, but each plant bore dozens of tomatoes that would eventually need to be harvested and stored. Germany could definitely appreciate the sort of dedication that it must take to care for all of these plants—fewer and fewer people seemed to have the patience for it these last hundred years, but it seemed like exactly the sort of hobby Spain would have.

"Spain tries to get as many types of tomatoes growing as he can just for the heck of it," Italy said, knowledgeably. "Those ones over there—" He pointed to a larger, plump tomato variety growing on the left. "Those are the ones you usually think are what tomatoes look like, right? Big and round and red? Tomatoes are really a lot more different than that—they can have all kinds of differences to them!"

Italy carefully stepped in between another row of plants with much smaller tomatoes on them that grew in clumps.

"Look over here, Germany, this kind is a lot smaller, right? And a little further down—the ones that look kinda long? Those get made into sauce usually, or a lot of the time they get canned for later. I've also seen tomatoes that look like strawberries or grapes or like hearts and there's ugly tomatoes and there's pretty tomatoes! They also come in all kinds of different colors other than red and some of them even have zebra stripes!"

So maybe some of these tomatoes _weren't _just unripe. Germany looked down at the ones in his hands and thought perhaps he should go ahead and try one: weren't fresh picked fruits and vegetables supposed to be better than the ones you bought from the store? It'd be so long since he'd had some he'd forgotten the taste of homegrown food, so maybe he was missing out here. Maybe he just didn't know the joyous wonders of a tomato straight from the vine.

"Italy?" Germany looked up again, realizing with a jolt that Italy had completely vanished without him knowing it—and only once he'd turned around a few times in a panic did he realize how stupidly ironic his reaction was. Hadn't he just witnessed Romano panicking over a missing Spain a few hours ago? Hadn't he been the one thinking to himself at the time how utterly ridiculous it was?

But that had been before Germany _knew_. Now that he did, he almost found it understandable.

"Italy!" said Germany, louder. "Where'd you go?"

"I'm right here! Sorry!"

The vines and leaves in front of Germany shook as Italy made his way back through, holding a new variety of tomato in his hands.

"Sorry!" Italy said again, a little out of breath. "I went because I remembered Spain has this kind of tomato right here! But they take a long time to make fruit so this one was the only one I found that was ripe." He held it up so Germany could see it more clearly. "I wanted to show it to you since I think it's kind of like you in a way!"

Germany gave him a doubtful look. The tomato was quite large for what it was, but it was also shaped like a very small, very red pumpkin.

"Would this count as one of the tomatoes you'd call ugly?"

"Well maybe," said Italy, considering for a moment. "But that's not the point! See, this is a beefsteak tomato, and it's the biggest kind of tomato you can grow."

"Oh," said Germany. He had no idea why he felt disappointed. "Because it's big. I get it."

"Agh, that's not the point either! It's not just because it's big, it's because of other stuff too! See, beefsteak tomatoes have a thin skin to them, and they also have a short shelf-life, so that's why you see the round ones at the big stores more, because those tomatoes won't get bruised up so easy. But people still like this kind because they've got some of the most flavor on the inside! And they're also good on sandwiches!"

"I don't understand how that's anything like me," Germany informed him. "You're telling me I'd be good on a sandwich?"

"I don't know, you do seem like the good-on-a-sandwich type." Italy gave Germany the beefsteak tomato to hold and went to pluck one of the little tomatoes he'd pointed out earlier off the vine. He held it between his finger and thumb and showed it off to him. "I'm probably more of a cherry tomato. I think I'd go better on a salad, don't you think?"

Germany stared at him, baffled.

"I don't think I understand your metaphor here."

"I'm not talking about metaphors, I'm talking about tomatoes," said Italy. He popped the tomato into his mouth and seemed mystified that Germany wasn't understanding. "How come you're being all weird tonight, Germany? Is it about Spain and Romano still?"

"Uh, well—it's still on my mind, if that's what you mean." It wasn't very often that Germany felt this uncertain, but now that he knew exactly what those two felt about each other, now that he knew what they sometimes did together, what they were probably doing _right_ now—no, no, he _really _shouldn't be thinking about it if he wanted to be able to sleep tonight. He shook his head to rattle the thought back out of his brain. "It's fine. If I'm acting strange then I'm sorry to worry you, though."

Italy shook his head at him.

"Don't be sorry about it. Do you want to come sit down with me, Germany?"

Italy led him to a weather-worn bench under a tree and sat, putting all of their tomatoes between them. He began dividing them up pile, making sure each of them would have exactly half, and he seemed to be working so diligently at it that Germany couldn't bring himself to say he really only wanted to try one or two.

"I have an idea," Italy announced, breaking the silence at last. "I think we should try talking about it."

Germany grimaced.

"You think so?"

"I think we really should." Italy bit into a new tomato, nodding. "Talking is good for you, you know? Grandpa always used to say you should talk about stuff when you're upset and punching the problem isn't going to work. And see, Romano doesn't take getting punched very well so I think we should just skip that step and you can go ahead and talk all mushy to me about your feelings, and I'll listen, and then I'll tell you what I think about it and try to make it better. How does that sound?"

Germany had to admit this plan of his did sound helpful, but if he was supposed to just start _talking_ about it—Italy's eyes were already on him and yet he truly had no idea where to begin. It was as if there were a million little things bothering him now, _had_ been bothering him ever since he'd arrived, but he didn't think he knew how to say them, or at least not very tactfully. If Germany had learned anything so far today, it was that people didn't often appreciate being told the things they'd always done were strange or wrong. He'd come here to learn, not enforce his own rules, so even if he was uncomfortable, even if his stomach was doing backflips, he still had to try to adapt.

"Are you giving me the silent treatment?" Italy asked, a little more timidly now. "On purpose, I mean? Are you mad at me? I told you already Germany, Spain was the only one who saw, and I don't think he would've given me a thumbs-up if he was upset. And if Romano knew you knew he'd have already—"

"I'm not mad," said Germany. He was pretty sure he'd said this already some time today. "I was never mad at you, and I'm _glad_ that nothing bad happened, actually. But—Italy, please just try to understand that I'm not very good with—processing emotional stuff like this. I think you're right about talking being the best thing to do, and I think I _need _to talk about it, eventually, but not right now. If that makes any sense."

Italy pursed his lips for a moment before speaking.

"Was seeing them kiss really that bad?"

"No," Germany admitted. He said this even though there was a very small, very bitter and unreasonable part of him which he normally did not allow to see the light of day, a part which did not want to accept in any way whatsoever that Romano could have _feelings _for another person. Because if that were the case then that meant Romano probably had other feelings too, and he wasn't in fact just the embodiment of the most insufferable sort of person on the planet, and then Germany wouldn't have his usual excuses for wanting nothing to do with him. "No, it wasn't really that bad, I'm just upset." Germany sighed. "I'm upset but I don't exactly know why. Maybe I don't want to admit why. Either way, if I don't know what the problem is I can't fix it, and that makes it worse. If I can't fix things then I never know what to do."

"So what'll happen?" asked Italy. He seemed genuinely concerned even though he was still eating. "What happens when you get upset over something that you can't fix? Or when you get upset for no reason at all?"

Germany looked at him.

"Does that actually happen to people?"

"It does to me." Italy didn't quite meet his eyes when he said that. "Some of the time."

Germany stood up. He didn't really know why, he wasn't _going_ anywhere, but it helped to feel like he _could _go somewhere, if only he could just figure all this out.

"I just." Germany mussed up his hair as he raked his fingers through it; it was hours past neatly combed anyway. "I'm starting to I think what's bothering me doesn't even have anything to do with what they did, it's more—something else. Which doesn't make sense, and I hate it. I shouldn't even be thinking it."

He looked back at Italy. It was almost completely dark now, so it was difficult to tell what sort of expression he was making.

"I know I'm not very good at giving advice," Italy said, slowly, "but I think maybe you should say it anyway, Germany. Feelings always count for something, don't they? Even when they're stupid?"

"It's—no. I really shouldn't." He _almost _got him there. The sweetness of Italy's concern almost had him wanting to admit everything to him, but then his sense of self-preservation kicked in and froze his tongue on the spot. "I'll tell you when I figure it out for myself first."

"Oh. Well, that's okay too! But you can still talk to me about it if you ever want to, okay? I want to be able to help Germany like Germany helps me. That's what we promised each other, right?"

Germany chanced another look behind him and discovered that Italy had gotten up and come to stand beside him without him noticing. Germany _might _have reacted with somewhat of an unflattering noise, but he managed to cover most of it up with a cough.

"Ah, I'm sorry!" Italy said, looking guilty. "I didn't mean to but I ate all the rest! I was listening so hard I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing. Do you want this one still?"

Italy put a particularly oblong tomato into his hand, and Germany almost laughed upon realizing that he wasn't apologizing for scaring him. Somehow it made him feel like all was right with the world.

"Don't worry. It's not like this is the very last one that's ripe, is it?"

"I could go look, but it's probably too dark to find a good one now. You don't want it?"

"No, no, I'll try it." Germany shook his head and turned the tomato over a couple times before bringing it to his mouth. He bit in and chewed, telling himself that no matter what he really thought about it, he was going to smile and nod and act gracious.

"Good?"

"It's—" Germany blinked. Well, it certainly was not as bad as he'd feared it could be. "It's good. I probably couldn't eat a bunch of them like you just did but—what's this kind called?"

This time he could see the curve of Italy's mouth as he grinned.

"I like those too. It's called a Roma tomato. But I wouldn't say it's a very Romano-like tomato."

"Oh God, not this again," Germany groaned. He took a second bite—he'd always eaten cold tomatoes, never one that was still warm from the sun, but the taste wasn't bad. It was just different. "Why? Because it's not very squishy on the insides?"

"Romano's _very_ squishy in the middle," Italy agreed. "But also I think he'd have more seeds in him, too."

Germany shuddered.

"Please, let's not talk about Romano's seeds."

"I meant it as in something you'd have to spit out!" Italy rolled his eyes and smiled. "Don't be gross, Germany. Anyway, I bet they're probably done by now. I think we should start heading back, seeing how dark it got and how I'm almost blind now."

Germany finished his tomato and swallowed but still couldn't get rid of the sudden lump in his throat.

"This is going to be incredibly awkward," he sighed. Maybe he was just imagining it but it looked like storm clouds were forming on the horizon and that seemed to set the mood a little _too_ well. "What am I supposed to say to them, exactly? 'Sorry I accidentally saw something that no creature should ever bear witness to?'"

"It's their business." Italy took his hands and squeezed them. "You don't have to say anything at all if you don't want to. And don't worry, I'll be right next to you the whole rest of the weekend so I'll protect you from Romano! And any more trauma, of course."

Germany sighed, and he smiled, and he wondered if maybe he should say it after all. He wanted to pull his hands away and he didn't. He wanted to act like an adult and talk about it, for Christ's sake. He wanted to know why the world required so many tomatoes and why he didn't just start covering himself in a layer of plastic wrap whenever Italy was around, because if Romano could do what he could not then he was doomed, doomed to live the rest of his life an arms' length from one of the few things he'd ever really wanted.

"Italy," Germany said, very seriously, "do you _actually_ want to know what I think you smell like?"

Italy gave him a bewildered look that lasted for several seconds.

"Are you serious?" _Now_ the grin was spreading all over his face. "Germany, I was joking before."

"Well thank goodness." Germany let out a snort that he couldn't help. "If you'd really like to know, Italy, the answer is that I really don't know. I didn't say this before because it's a stupid question in the first place but also because you don't smell like anything, I think, though maybe I've just been around you too long. And you probably won't believe this but I _don't_ always have all the answers, you know, and sometimes I pretend just as much as everyone else. But if you do smell like something it's probably something good, and I'm not just saying that because I think it would hurt your feelings to hear otherwise. That's what I really think."

Italy blinked at him.

"I think that might be the most romantic thing you've ever said to me."

"_What?_" It was Germany's turn to look bewildered. "No it's not. Is it? No. Not even that I love you?"

"Oh!" Italy's eyes sparkled a little. How they did that, with minimal lighting, would forever be a mystery. "_That's_ the most romantic thing you've said to me! I love you too, Germany!"

"Oh my God. I've said that before! I swear I have!"

"No you haven't!" Italy bounced up and down, excited. "That was the very first time! I was waiting for it! See, it was just kind of implied all along and I knew and everything but you hadn't ever actually said it! But now you did! I'm so happy!"

Germany made a pained sort of nose, and he knew there was nothing else he could at that moment, after hearing all that, but lean forward and kiss him. So he did, and Italy made a delighted little noise against his mouth.

"Wow," said Italy, and threw himself at him with a laugh. Germany hugged—_held_—him back. "You need to be traumatized more often. I love you, Germany!"

"I—love you too," Germany tried. "Italy, I'm sorry for being so incompetent at this. This is not an area where I excel."

"Incompetency where it counts is our middle names!" Italy told him, which wasn't helpful, exactly, but he was smiling so that made it a little easier to hear at least. "And don't worry, I'm used to it so it's okay! Even if it took a long time I knew you'd get around to it eventually."

"Incompetency?" Spain asked, out of nowhere. "Ita, you're not talking about me, are you?"

Germany very near to literally leapt out of his skin, but at least he wasn't the only one. He felt Italy jump, too.

"_Oh!_ Hi Spain!" He seemed to recover quickly enough because the very next thing he did was skipp over to him for a hug, which Spain gladly gave him. "No, of course I wasn't talking about you! Did you come out to find us?"

"Well it _is_ getting awfully dark if you hadn't noticed," said Spain. "So I thought I should come find you since even Romano was wondering why you'd been gone so long. I'm guessing you helping yourselves to some tomatoes?"

"Yup, we ate a whole bunch of them! Well, actually I was the one who ate a whole bunch of them and Germany tried just one. But they were just as good as always!"

"That's good to hear." Spain gave Italy an extra tight squeeze and laughed a little. "I'm so sorry about running you both off, I hope you're not mad. I was just trying to cheer Romano up and he doesn't normally act so affectionate so I ended up getting carried away. Well, not as carried away as we could have, but—" He trailed off somewhat wistfully.

"I understand," said Italy, with a wink so obnoxiously big Germany could see it even in the dark. "I'm sure it makes you happy when he finally shows you how much he likes you."

"Speaking of," Germany mumbled. "How much did you see just now? How incriminating was it?"

"What?" Spain looked confused. "I can't see any better than you two can. Was I supposed to see something?"

"It's nothing you need to worry about," said Italy. Germany glanced at him, but Italy just nodded at him and seemed to understand. It was their own business too, after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Culture Notes<strong>

*Tomatoes come in many more varieties than the round ones you might typically think of (called globe or slicing tomatoes), all of them grown for their unique flavors and uses. I can't link it here, but try looking up tomatoes on Wikipedia to see what I mean.


	5. Chapter 5

They came so close. They'd come _so_ very close to just walking into the house and going straight to the kitchen, and then Germany could have enjoyed a nice dinner and gone to bed shortly after. But no such luck: the door slammed open in front of them and Romano clutched at the door frame, looking winded and desperate.

"Spain, we have an _emergency_."

Spain's ever-present smile froze, then faded. He turned colors faster than a traffic light and bolted forward, grabbing Romano's shoulders.

"Are you hurt?" he demanded. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"_Spain_!" said France, cheerfully, coming up from behind. "So you _are_ here! Romano just got done telling me that you'd left the continent and were never coming back and I've got to tell you, I've never been so glad to be blatantly misinformed."

"Hi France!" said Italy.

"Spain," Romano hissed. "Just make him _leave_."

"France, I _told_ you not to come," said Spain. He took Romano's wrist and pulled him over to him—Germany had never seen Romano so glad to go to Spain's side. "What are you doing here? I wasn't planning on a home invasion today."

"Ha." France smiled at him like he'd just been told a very good joke. "You can hardly call it a home invasion if I knocked and was politely let in."

"I thought he was _you, _Spain!" Romano moaned. "I thought you locked yourself out again!"

"_France,_" Spain tried again, as politely as he could manage. "You know that I love you and you'll always be my best friend in the entire world but you _really_ shouldn't be here right now. It's already been hard enough to keep everyone civil as it is—"

Romano huffed.

"And you're going to say it's all been _my_ fault?"

"Well, I _wasn't_ going to say that, but now that you mention it," said Spain, tossing him a look. "My point is that you and France in the same room gets to be unbearable and France is _not_ invited so he's _going to go home._"

"Well of course it'll be unbearable, that's why coming over tonight seemed so funny to me." France slung a friendly arm over Spain's shoulder and snorted at his obvious irritation. "Oh come on, I'm only joking, don't look at me like that. Can't I at least stay for dinner and chat with my favorite neighbors while you're all in the same place for once? I already ate though, I was really hungry earlier. You need to consider having your meals on a more reasonable schedule, Spain."

"You aren't leaving, are you?" Spain sighed.

"It's a _family gathering_," France reminded him, smiling. "You said it yourself."

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, Germany began wondering if France even knew the danger he was in.<p>

"I'm going to kill him," Romano announced. He'd grabbed one of the pillows off Spain's sofa and was squeezing it so hard in his lap it was a wonder it hadn't exploded. "I'm going to kill France, and then I'm going to kill Spain for good measure."

"You know that's not actually possible, right?" asked Italy. "Also it'd look bad politically if anyone got hurt so I wouldn't let you."

"Whose side is Spain even _on_?" Romano continued, ignoring him. "I knew it'd be like this, too. It's _always_ like this. France always invites himself over and never leaves because Spain's too damn nice to say no. It's not _fair_."

Italy made an exasperated noise.

"Romano, he's not the only one who does it, you know. You're always over here when you've got nothing to do—"

"That's not my point!"

Germany rested his cheek on his hand and sighed. He'd seen Romano with his face glued to someone else's not too long ago and now it seemed even harder to believe that he could really be this difficult to get along with. Germany now had definitive _proof_ that Romano had the capacity to be understanding and kind and all those other things that loving another person required, and yet here he was, still causing excruciating pain to everyone in the room. Germany couldn't say that he had Italy any more figured out, but at least _he_ was consistent. With Romano, Germany didn't have a clue.

"Romano, are you really saying that just because France is here you can't deal with him for a couple hours?" Italy yanked the pillow away from him and put it back where it belonged before it ended up destroyed. "France just enjoys causing everybody a little trouble, okay? So I know France is on a whole other level from Germany but you can't at least _pretend_ to be nice?"

"Can't I just be _nice_?" Romano yelled. "You seem to be forgetting that I was _tricked_ into doing this! Spain invited _me_, and as far as I knew, _just_ me! And then I'm told you're going to be here, and that was fine, but next Germany showed up and everything fell to shit!"

"That's not how it went at all. Germany hasn't done _anything_," Italy pressed. Germany considered for a moment that it was probably a very good thing for Romano that both Italy and Spain seemed to have a near infinite capacity for patience, because Germany was ready to tune out once again. "You're angry, and I know you are, Romano, but stop getting all mad at everyone for every little thing they do, okay? Families are supposed to forgive each other, and if Spain didn't want for us to start acting more like a family he wouldn't be doing all of this for us. And you know if you keep arguing nothing's gonna get fixed!"

"Nothing needs fixing except for Spain's dumbass brain," Romano griped, looking away. "Fuck whatever he said about getting along, if I have to put up with the people in this god damn house right now I don't want _any_ of you people to be my family—"

"Oh my _gosh_, Romano, would you _shut up_ already?" Both Romano and Germany startled as Italy threw his arms into air. "I _know_ you care! If you didn't care you wouldn't be half this mad, so please just listen to me! You're hurting my feelings acting like this, and if you don't at least _try_ to get along you're going to hurt Spain too! You know how he always puts his heart into his ideas like this so if we can't work this out he's gonna get really upset!"

Romano stared at him, mouth opening for a moment before closing again. Germany could quite literally watch comprehension dawning on him as his face went from angry to flushed to faintly embarrassed.

"I—wha—no, _you_ shut up!" Romano squawked at him. "No he won't be! And it doesn't matter what I do, I know Spain and he's—he wouldn't—"

His sentence ended in an incoherent sputter. Romano gave up and turned himself around on the sofa so that he could stare intensely in the opposite direction.

"Shut _up_," he added.

Italy breathed outward and seemed to calm down a little.

"So you understand what I'm telling you now?"

"No. I have no idea what the fuck you're saying."

"Even if you can't be nice out of the goodness of your heart or for your brother, won't you at least do it for Spain? Hm? Won't you maybe go to the kitchen and apologize to him, Romano?"

"No, I'm _not_ going to apologize and _France_ is in there, you idiot." Romano still refused to look at him. "If I go in, France had better _leave_."

"Then do you want me to go get him for you?"

"Don't bother, I'm already here," said France. He'd popped back into the sitting room as if right on cue, and Romano immediately jerked his head back the other way to glare at him.

"Fucking Christ," he mumbled. "What do _you_ want? Get the fuck out!"

France put up both hands in a gesture of peace.

"No need to get so testy, I just came out here because I heard arguing." France cast a look at Germany. "And I thought _you_ might be trying to stop them?"

"I know better than to try by now," Germany said, deadpan. "I normally just sit in the corner and cower."

"Well I can't say I blame you." France shrugged. "Poor Spain, he tells me how _hard_ he's been trying, but you two just haven't stopped fighting all day, have you? So unfortunate how certain individuals will completely forget their manners at times like these."

"_I_ didn't forget them!" Italy whined.

"Yeah, fuck you, France," Romano spat. "Don't you just come waltzing in and pretend like you're the fucking voice of reason around here."

"So you're telling me you've got a _good reason_ to be angry, do you now?" France fixed him a look that clearly said he knew better—and considering that France had been around long enough to have witnessed the births of most of Europe, maybe he did. "Your brother's absolutely right, Romano. If you don't start shaping up then you're going to end up ruining this entire weekend for everyone else. And then just imagine, you'll have to live the rest of your miserable little life knowing that you were the one who shattered Spain's heart into a million little pieces—"

"Oh my god, fuck _you_," Romano groaned. "You are _such_ an obnoxious piece of _shit_, France. Forget it, Veneziano—I'm going to go make Spain apologize to _me_ for fucking putting me through this. France, do us all a favor and _piss off_."

Romano got up from the sofa and marched out of the room, leaving everyone else in a few moments of stunned silence.

"Great," muttered Germany.

"That _is_ great," said France, happily. "We've made progress!"

"Yay!" cheered Italy. "Thanks, France! High five!"

"_No_, no high five," Germany tried, as they did so anyway. He was baffled at what just happened. "All he did was make him angrier. How did that deserve a high five?"

"Because excellent teamwork always deserves a high five," explained France, still looking pleased with himself. "And were you not paying attention, Germany? The fact he got angry meant we got through to him, and we all know getting through to Romano is like getting through to a dimwitted rock."

"It's kind of the same for Spain, really," Italy said. "But we got Romano to go talk to him!"

"How was that—how could you possibly define that as getting it?" Germany was becoming ever more convinced that he would never understand the Mediterranean. "Did no one hear what he just said?"

"Germany, Germany." France smiled at him while shaking his head. "I think we need to talk and get you caught up to speed on things here. Italy, come to think of it—oh. Actually—" He froze a little, blinking like he'd realized something too late. "Italy, would you mind checking up on Romano? Make sure he made it to the kitchen and everything, I'd feel bad if he ran off to sulk in some other part of the house instead."

"Ooh." Italy went a little pale. "Good point. I'll go make sure."

Italy hopped up from the sofa and scurried out after Romano, which meant that Germany was now not only in the same room as France, but in the same room and _alone_ with France. It worried him that the conversation they were about to have could have the potential to turn into a mess of uncomfortable innuendo before long, which seemed to be the eventual fate of all conversations with France, so Germany hoped Italy would hurry back.

"So," Germany began. "You _did_ notice he didn't seem very happy by the end of that? Was that the reason for the pause?"

"Well, it's true that I was hoping for aggravated, not royally pissed off." France dropped down onto the sofa, and considering that he was the sort of person who normally exuded confidence, it was odd to see him look contemplative. It occurred to Germany that maybe France really _didn't_ know better. Perhaps all he'd really done was waltz in and _assume_ he did. "Hmm. Do you really think he unhelpfully upset, rather than the helpfully upset I was going for?"

"What form of 'upset' has ever been _helpful_?"

"I just wanted him to realize he really ought to be nicer, you know. But just now when Romano left he did seem a little more upset than usual, now that you've pointed it out to me." France pondered it for a moment longer. "Yes, that was definitely a more-upset-than-usual face he was making."

"Right, that was what I was trying to tell both of you. He was obviously upset by that."

Germany didn't claim to know much about Romano, but the funny thing about war—or not so funny thing—was that it could always teach you what upset looked like on another person. And Germany had seen Romano plenty upset: he'd seen him at the heights of stubbornness and the pits of despair, and he knew the difference between pissed off Romano and just this close to huddling down in his tent and never coming out again Romano. The Romano who just walked out of the room had seemed dangerously close to the latter.

"Ah well, even the infallible make an unwise decision occasionally." France shrugged, and it was impossible to tell whether he was trying to sound dramatic on purpose or if that was just the natural thing for him to do at this point. Either way he didn't seem particularly remorseful. "I swear what usually happens is that you give Romano a push in the right direction and everything tends to work itself out."

"But are you sorry for saying all that to him or not?" Germany sighed. He wished France could be a little less cryptic and a little more helpful. "You sound unconvinced that making Romano mad is a bad idea."

"Making Romano mad is usually the eventually fate of all conversations with Romano in the first place," said France. "See, when I said you needed to learn about how things operated around here, this is part of how things tend to operate. Maybe I'm a huge idiot, I don't know, but half the time I think there just isn't any hope because Spain's an even bigger idiot and Italy is—Italy. Romano might just be the smartest person here next to you, and I'm sure you've noticed that by now."

Germany opened his mouth and closed it again.

"I refuse to comment."

"In any case." France waved his hand in front of his face as though trying to return to his original train of thought, if there'd ever been a train to begin with. "One of the actual reasons I'm here is because I'm convinced that Spain is going to screw all this up without a great deal of help and a few miracles along the way. He doesn't even have a clear goal in the first place, does he? When he told me what he was up to I honestly thought it was the most insane idea I'd ever heard—I mean, Romano is unfortunately the sort of issue you can't just fix him over the course of a weekend. And—I don't _actually_ think everything's Romano's fault, but it's _mostly_ his fault. That fact has been long established."

"France," Germany interrupted, grimacing a little. "Romano makes everything difficult, I know that, but if you claim this is complicated then I don't know why you'd presume to understand it. Your way of dealing with Romano might be more—direct, but I'd personally rather leave him alone than try to force anything and end up worse than where I started."

"I'd like to say that the ends justify the means, of course, but—" France rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. There was a long silence before he spoke again. "Here's a question, Germany: how well would you say this has all actually worked out? Say, on a scale of one to ten?"

Germany pondered this for a moment, drawing up everything that had happened since their arrival, but he couldn't say he knew what this experienced has accomplished so far, if anything. The only thing that felt any different right now were the emotional scars he'd acquired from the mental image of Romano and Spain 'not getting as carried away as they could have' on the sofa not so long ago.

"It hasn't been a complete failure," Germany admitted. "Spain was hoping we'd all get along better by the end of this but like you said, I never thought we could reverse everything over the course of a weekend. So at least for my part, I thought I'd just give my best effort and do what you're supposed to do on a vacation, and that part of it hasn't been all that bad. Though maybe the only reason why I'm not as annoyed with Romano as Italy seems to be is because I didn't have very high expectations of him in the first place. So, it's been both good and bad."

France smiled at him slightly.

"None of that was a number but I think I understand what you mean. You know, Germany, sometimes I forget how nice a guy you really are."

"You made that sound like an insult, somehow," Germany sighed.

"You always try to do things the right way, is what I meant. Those of us living in the Mediterranean are good people, but sometimes we let our passions blind us." Germany could not believe that France was back to nodding sagely after all he'd just said and done. "Look, despite what it may look like—I _do_ love Spain, and Italy and Romano are like little brothers to me. So I have this unfortunate little habit of stepping in and trying to help, and I've never been particularly bothered at the thought of Romano disliking me if I could keep whatever sort of family I have from falling apart entirely." France took a meaningful pause. "Of course, while I may be right at least ninety-nine percent of the time, occasionally some member of the younger generation comes along with their fresh faces and youthful optimism and suggest outrageous things—"

"You are utterly incomprehensible at times," said Germany.

France laughed and smiled at him once more, a look of gentle sincerity across his features.

"Maybe this was what Spain had hoped for in bringing both you and Romano together," he mused. "They say humans are creatures of habit, and I have always believed that is even more true among nations. In the same way that I believe you could stand to learn a thing or two from us during your stay here, perhaps the learning opportunity is mutual. And me saying that is a pretty incredible thing to be admitting—I happen to have very strong opinions, you know."

"Yes, I'm aware."

"Then this time I may have to accept I could be pretty far off the mark, or maybe even just too close to the problem. See what I mean?"

"Not at all. Do you mean you _are_ the problem? That much I have no problem believing."

"No, no. All I'm saying is that a new outlook might be exactly what was needed all along," said France. "And when you put things in the way that you have, it occurs to me that despite all of our best efforts— well, it really is possible that all we've ever managed to do is _perpetuate_ the problem."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong> - This part of the story is pretty different from the version I originally had on the kinkmeme. My readers critiqued me on my decision to condense a lot of family drama into one section and show off some undesirable characters traits all at once, which I now realize was a bit much. All I want to say is that as the writer, I'm trying to give these characters more complicated emotions and motivations than seen in the source material, and I realize people will probably disagree with me with how I do it because my embellishments are based off headcanons that can get complicated and go to dark places. However, in this particular chapter, I've looked back and decided to make alterations because I realize now that I went in too deep with my own ideas without providing adequate explanation or conclusion. I'm still struggling to make this part of the story right, but hopefully the revisions I've made are an improvement.


	6. Chapter 6

"_France._" Spain had appeared in the archway, arms crossed, face set. Italy looked a little terrified to be standing next to him. "What _exactly_ did you say to Romano?"

"There's a difference between _perpetuating_ a problem and being the _root_ of a problem," France insisted, standing up. "Did Romano come talk to you? I thought he'd go call you whatever names he wanted and you might talk to him and then he'd feel better. I swear that was all I wanted to happen. It usually _does_ happen."

"Well he didn't," Spain told him, stiffly. "He came in and gave me a serious look and then he ran off. _What did you say to Romano_?"

"We really didn't mean to upset him _that_ much, though!" said Italy, slipping past. His hands were all over the place as he tried to convey what happened. "See, Romano was getting mad and more mad about France and then I wanted to him to realize everyone was getting mad at _him_ because he wasn't being nice and then we were yelling at each other again and then France blamed Romano too—so he left and said he was going to talk to you and I thought you'd just make up like you and calm down like he usually does!"

"Spain," said France, "everyone here knows Romano's more stubborn than anything. He doesn't like to be wrong and he doesn't like to adapt. You wanted everyone to get along but you _knew_ Romano wouldn't have signed himself up for this."

"But that's—" Spain glanced quickly at him. "That's different. Even if I knew Romano was going to be unhappy for a little while I thought—"

"But it really hasn't been working," Italy said, more subdued. "It kinda got worse."

"Well I didn't account for _someone_ suddenly showing up." Spain's brow furrowed even more. "France, I _told _you not to come. I knew you were gonna do something to push him over the edge. Things were going just fine until you showed up. Stop taking things out of him and acting like being arrogant about it is all you know how to do!"

This time it was Spain on the receiving end of a dirty look.

"You're calling _me_ arrogant now?" France argued, sweeping his hand. "I take responsibility for setting him off, but you can't possibly say you and Italy and Germany weren't the ones who already had him in a bad state. If I'd known what the outcome would be I wouldn't have said what I said, alright? I know that letting Romano continue to hate Germany for absolutely no reason isn't good for any of us. But don't you dare talk to me about arrogance when you Romano continues to get away with denying his own role in things—"

"But who _knows _what Romano's feeling right now, France!" Spain yelled. His face had lost most of its color, and his voice was painful to hear. "He's probably just—because of _us_, Romano's probably—"

"I don't _like_ to see him this upset," said France, more sharply. "But it's not as if I'm the only one who decided pissing him off to get what I wanted was the way to go. _Right_?"

Spain didn't respond. He looked away from all of them, clutching his arms more tightly, and Italy came to sit down at Germany's side.

"I just really wanted him to quit being angry at me," Italy admitted. "I knew yelling back was only going to make him more mad but I thought if I could get him to quit arguing then everything would eventually go fine, you know? But I love Romano, and I really didn't mean to hurt him so bad! I didn't know he'd react that way, so even if I knew it was mean—he's always yelling at me, and that's the only reason I yelled back! Because that's the sort of thing that gets _me_ upset. I hate having him yell."

France and Spain glanced at one another. Italy sighed and looked to Germany, seeking his support, so Germany put a hand on his knee. Seeing that look on his face reminded of something he'd long suspected but never said out loud: that Italy didn't _really_ have the boundless optimism and confidence he seemed to, and there were times when he felt badly about himself just as there were for everyone.

"I know you love him," Germany said. He lifted his eyes and added to the others, less kindly, "though apparently I was wrong to think that meant any of you could deal with him in a reasonable manner."

"I really ought to stop spending time with England, I think I've gotten too used to being right all the time lately," said France, with a dramatic mournfulness. Unsurprisingly, he sounded like the first one to shake off his guilt. "C'mon, Spain, you know it's always been push and shove with Romano. You can't expect this time to be any different, and you _know_ he's still going to love you and Italy even if you fuck up a million more times anyway."

Spain bit his lip. He looked incredibly guilty, unlike France, even with having no direct involvement with this latest incident. Germany wondered if perhaps it had really taken this long for him to realize that even if his intentions were good, this had all been against Romano's wishes from the start.

"We should go apologize to Romano," Italy volunteered. "I know Romano probably owes _us_ an apology too, but so do we. We should all apologize, and then we should work out a way to start being nicer to each other."

"I concur," said France. Which one of us should we sacrifice to try and go find him?"

"None of you, since I'm right here," said Romano, entering the room with a deep frown on his face. "Did I _miss_ something? I had to go take a piss and now you all look like someone died."

"Romano!" Italy exclaimed, jumping up. "We all thought you ran off because we got you upset! I thought you might be crying!"

"_What?_ I wouldn't cry over bullshit like that! I just really had to go!"

"_Romanoooo_!" Spain's mouth wobbled and then he seemed to break down completely, bodily throwing himself at Romano. Italy soon followed, and probably the only reason they both managed to get their arms around him was because Romano was stunned to react. "Romano, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. I knew you'd be mad but I didn't want you to be _really_ mad and I didn't want you to think we didn't care about your feelings—"

"And I didn't mean what I said!" Italy added, quickly. "We weren't thinking about what you'd feel even though that's really important to us! I'm sorry!"

"And I'm sorry too!" France piped up. "And I still mean that even if I doubt I'm invited to the group hug."

Romano's spoke again, his voice dropping to a mutter. "I wasn't _that_ upset."

"So you were still _kind _of upset?"

"I knew he was just being an asshole!" Romano wormed his way out of their arms and jerked his head in France's direction, as if he really needed to clarify who he was referring to. "But it wasn't only him, you've _all _been assholes today!"

"I'm _really_ sorry, Romano," Italy said, looking sad. "Do you hate us forever now?"

Romano seemed torn between punching Italy in the head and being embarrassed to death, so he glared at the ceiling instead.

"God, shut up and stop—overreacting. I don't hate either of you."

"Yay! I love you too, Romano!"

"That's _not_ what I said!"

* * *

><p>Bizarrely enough, France kept his word about only staying for dinner. As soon as everyone had eaten and talked—Germany sorely wished he'd known earlier that <em>lunch<em> was supposed to be the biggest meal of the day around here—France pushed back his chair and announced he'd be taking his leave.

"But we're all getting along now!" protested Italy. "You don't have to go if you don't want to!"

"No, no, I think I've already overstayed my welcome." France rubbed Italy's head affectionately. "And don't think I'm forcing myself to go, I'm bored out of my skull anyway. I can't believe you're thirty minutes from the heart of downtown and staying in on a Friday night. Madrid's one of the party capitals of the world!"

"Clubbing didn't seem like a very family-oriented activity," said Spain, half-smiling. Somehow Germany really couldn't imagine someone like Spain being the partying type, but then again Germany didn't really seem it either and Berlin had a famously exciting nightlife of its own. "So I'm guessing you'll be bar-hopping long into the night?"

"Possibly!" France shrugged like the matter was out of his hands. "I just go wherever the wind takes me, you know—sometimes even _I_ don't know what I'll be up to! But—so long as you're going to be here all weekend, Germany, how about I go check in on Prussia sometime? I'll make sure your dogs are still alive while I'm over."

"Oh." Germany couldn't believe he'd actually forgotten about the responsibility he'd left Prussia with. His poor dogs. "Thank you, France."

"No, no need to thank me! And I'm sorry for the trouble I've caused everyone—you know I only ever try to help, but I guess you just can't win when you pick fights with Romano."

Romano met France's eyes with a disinterested look and lifted his middle finger. Spain reached out and casually closed his hand around his, bringing it back down to the table.

"You don't need to forgive him, Roma, but let's try not being openly hostile."

Romano snorted.

"You told us you're leaving so why haven't you fucked off already?"

"Okay, okay, I'll get a move on then, I know when I'm not wanted." France stood up and grinned. "It was nice getting to see everybody. I'll come back soon, okay?"

"Please don't."

"Romano, hush. I'll make sure you're out of the house for the next time he's over." Spain still hadn't taken his hand off Romano's—and judging from the slight smile on Italy's face when Germany looked over, he wasn't the only one who'd noticed. "Have a nice night France, just try not to wake up in a gutter, okay?"

"That I can't promise," France said. "Hugs and kisses, everyone! Farewell, bonsoir, I depart!"

"Bye France!"

France left the dining room with a flourish, leaving everyone else in a state of momentary silence. Spain was just about to speak again when Germany stood up from his chair as well.

"Excuse me," he said. Three pairs of eyes followed him as he pushed in his chair and promptly left the room, hurrying his way out to the foyer. He caught up to France just as he got to the door.

"France, hold on."

France turned to Germany with a raised eyebrow, hand poised over the door knob.

"Changed your mind about wanting me to leave, have you?"

"No, you should most definitely be leaving. It's just that I was suddenly considering the option of leaving too," said Germany, with complete seriousness. "Do you think I should?"

"I had a feeling that's what this was about." France shrugged and let out a sigh. "Are you sure? Italy wouldn't be happy with that decision, at least."

"I know," Germany sighed. "I know Italy wouldn't want me to. _I_ don't even want to. It's just that I'm starting to feel like this could be a huge waste of my time if my presence will do nothing but aggravate Romano."

"You aren't the problem," France reminded him, trying to be kind. "You weren't having the greatest time before I arrived, it looks like, but I think I ended up being the one who showed up and made everyone miserable."

"You're definitely a large part of it," Germany conceded. "But I mean, earlier today, before I knew—certain things, I thought that if Romano had such a big problem with all of this, then he would just say enough was enough and be able to leave. But now I've started to think maybe he cares enough about Italy and Spain that he'd be putting up with this as much as I am. So, if it's really so impossible for us to get along, and Romano continues being stubborn, it might be for the best that I think about ending things before we arrive at a stalemate. Do you understand what I mean?"

France was quiet for a moment. Germany cringed a little, hoping all that hadn't sounded unreasonable.

"Germany." France finally smiled at him again. "You know, the more I talk to you, the more I'm convinced you're just a painfully nice sort of person."

"What do you mean by 'painfully?'"

"If you really want to know whether Romano would leave or not, then maybe I'm not the one you should ask," France suggested. "Have you considered asking Romano himself? I know that might seem crazy, but if you're so willing to do things the hard way then getting him to tell you directly might give you the best idea of what to do. I'm sure he'd appreciate someone caring about his opinion, in any event. He's so damn difficult to deal with half the time nobody normally does."

"Part of the problem," Germany repeated. "Is this the same problem you were talking about earlier?"

"I was referring to the problem of Romano being Romano," said France, nodding. "See, it usually takes a herculean amount of effort and patience to get through to him, and that's why I'm not the one for the job. All I can really do is poke at him and hope he does something. And Spain and Italy are idiots, as we've discussed, but they also have to cut through more bullshit than the rest of us to tell what he's thinking. He hides what he really thinks from those two the most."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"It might sound that way, but I assure you, if you pay attention you will find that it does," said France. He gave Germany a hearty pat on the shoulder. "Anyway, the only advice I can give here is to do what you think you need to. Maybe you can manage what the rest of us can't and reach some sort of understanding with everyone. But then again, Germany, you do tend to try so hard to do things right that you forget to pay attention to your own desires. So don't try _too_ hard, will you?"

"Right. In any case, I think I'm going to go ask Romano what he wants me to do now."

"You were already planning on doing that, from the sound of it," France told him, seeming to perk up considerably. "But if all you needed was a little reassurance from someone as wise and knowledgeable as myself then I'm only too happy to help."

"You really are full of shit," said Germany, amused. "I was just asking for a second opinion."

"Call it what you want, then!" France flashed him another smile as he walked out the door, but spoke to him just a little more seriously the moment before he left. "You'll be alright, Germany. The damage has already been done, so I'd say things can only get better from now on. Always fail upwards—that's pretty much the Mediterranean way."

* * *

><p>On his way back to the dining room, Germany was surprised to run into Italy in the hallway.<p>

"You left all of a sudden and didn't come back," he explained, quickly. "So I got worried about you. Is something wrong?"

"It's—no. Nothing's wrong." Well _that_ came out sounding like a lie. "Sorry—I mean that there's nothing wrong that you don't know about. Though I appreciate that you came to check on me."

Italy frowned and came a little closer to hug him around the waist.

"But you're still worried about something, right?"

"I'm always worrying. You know that. I can't be like you and not worry about things, that's just how I am."

"I know." Italy gazed up at him with a shy expression. "But I still don't like it that way. I like it better when you're happy."

Germany lifted both arms on an impulse, right on the verge of doing something abnormally affectionate—but he hesitated halfway through, his brain and his reservations catching up to him, and the cheerless little laugh Italy gave him was the most awful thing to hear.

"No hug after all?"

Germany took a breath and resigned himself to hugging—_holding_—Italy back, around the shoulders. Italy seemed surprised for a moment, but then he made a happy sound and squeezed back even more tightly than before. "Italy, I'm just thinking about how I'm considering doing something that might be a little crazy."

"Crazy in what way?"

"Me talking to Romano about something serious sort of crazy."

"Oh no." Italy pulled back to meet Germany's eyes again. "Something's _really_ wrong, then. What's the matter?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Sure I do."

"Alright." Germany exhaled. "Don't take this the wrong way but—I was planning to offer to leave, if Romano still doesn't want any part of this."

"Oh," said Italy, with relief evident on his face. "Well that's actually not all that crazy. I already asked him that."

"You did? Just now?"

"Hours ago. I wanted to talk about it private so I did it while you were busy with your nap. I knew that if I asked Romano right in front of you he'd just get defensive about how he felt," Italy explained, smiling a little. "So once I asked him how he felt Romano was all, 'no, it's not like I'm gonna force him to go,' and I was all, 'well then why are you complaining so much?' and then he didn't really answer me but he said he'd try to control his temper If I promised not to act gross or lovey-dovey in front of him. But then even though I kept my side of the agreement, Romano was _still_ yelling and complaining! And that's part of why I got all mad at him."

"Were you sworn to secrecy about this or something?" Germany rubbed his face with his hand, exasperated. "If you'd just told me what he said I wouldn't have worried about this. I already could have gone and made my own deal with him."

"I'm sorry, I just assumed he wouldn't want to cooperative or agree with you on anything, you know? Plus, it _did_ seem like the sort of thing he wouldn't want me to repeat to you." Italy stopped himself and gasped. "Crap, but I guess I just did! Does this count as making Romano mad because I'm hoping it'll turn out better later on? I told myself I'd stop doing that."

Germany sighed.

"That's a very minor transgression in comparison to what Spain or France did. Anyway, do you know if Romano would still feel the same way if I asked him _now_? Has he said anything to you since?"

"He hasn't said anything so I don't know what he's thinking now. I think we should try, though. And for the record, I don't think you're being crazy, I think you just want to hear from Romano directly because you like things to be proper like that."

"You don't have to analyze my actions here."

"C'mon, let's go talk to Romano, Germany!" Italy nodded with determination. "And even if Romano's changed his mind by now—then I still don't want you to worry, because if that happens then I'll just have to leave with you! How's that sound?"

Germany opened his mouth for a second, then he shook his head.

"You don't have to do that. Romano already said he had no problem with you being here, just me. So you shouldn't have to go if it's only because I'm here that you two can't get along."

Italy took Germany's hand and looked up at him very seriously.

"Germany, please just listen to me. First of all, Romano and I still fight a lot of the time, so don't you worry about that. It's normal. And second of all, I definitely don't want you to think you're a problem, okay? I know it doesn't feel good to think Romano hates you, but if he won't even give you a chance then that's completely his fault and not yours. Sometimes I get the feeling Romano just doesn't know how to deal with certain stuff, y'know? That's what I really think—it's like whenever he's having a hard time he just blows up at people because it's easy for him. So—I just want you to understand that if anyone here is the problem, it's definitely not you. Okay?"

"I understand all that, Italy," said Germany. "But—"

"Germany, if you're being nice enough to offer to go home, then that right there should make Romano realize you're not the bad guy he thinks you are!" Italy squeezed Germany's hand with both of his own. "And if he doesn't want you around, well, then I'd much rather end up spending the rest of this weekend with someone who isn't being a jerk. Besides, I can be with Romano and Spain any time I want but you're the one I can't always go see because you're usually busy working. So if I really had to chose, I'd rather be with you."

Germany sighed yet again.

"Thanks. Somehow you managed to make me feel bad and encourage me at the same time."

"You're very welcome." Italy smiled and pulled on his arm, pointing in the direction of the dining room. "They're probably tired of waiting for us to come back. Are you gonna come or not?"

"Okay, okay—I will."

* * *

><p><strong>Culture Notes<strong>

Clubbing! I mentioned it so let's talk about it. There's several cities in Spain known for an exciting nightlife (partially due to how late Spaniards eat dinner) and the partying that goes on Berlin could definitely make you rethink the German reputation for seriousness. In both Madrid and Berlin clubs will open around midnight, but you'll probably see the most action at 2AM or later (possibly because everyone's drunk by then). According to my research, the pricing in Madrid generally starts around 10 Euros, including a free drink, and in Berlin the price range is fairly cheap, at 5 to 10 Euros (but there's no drink included). A variety of music is played, though Berlin seems to love Electronic and Techno.


	7. Chapter 7

"Was something wrong?" asked Spain.

"Everything's fine! Germany just needed a few minutes to himself, I think." Italy hopped back to his seat and his eyes flickered towards Germany for just a moment before continuing. "Would you be willing to listen for just a little bit, Romano? Germany has something he'd like to say to you now."

"Oh great." Romano leaned back in his chair, huffily. "This ought to be good."

Spain cast an exasperated look in his direction but spoke to Germany instead.

"I get the feeling this is about something important?"

"It is." Germany cleared his throat, preparing to use his I'm-being-very-serious-right-now voice that was usually reserved for meetings and occasionally Italy. "Now, before I say this, I want to make it clear that this has nothing to do with you, Spain, because despite how this might sound I've enjoyed being here for the most part, and you've been very kind and everything—"

"I think you're making it sound worse than it really is, Germany," said Italy.

He was probably right, too—Spain looked simultaneously confused and crestfallen and Germany hadn't even spit out what he was trying to say. Maybe prefacing this was the wrong tactic. Maybe he should have written down some talking points on notecards so he wouldn't have to wing it, but at that point it really _would_ be a meeting.

"Then—" Germany turned in Romano's direction and did his best to not let his scowling get to him. Romano was always scowling—that alone didn't necessarily mean he was about to get his vacation cut short. "I know you probably don't want to listen to me, Romano, so I'll try to keep this brief."

Romano didn't respond to him, but he did

"Basically," Germany pressed, talking right over him, "I'm not actively trying to make you unhappy, and I want us to at least get to a point where we can tolerate one another. So if I'm doing something wrong or I've been rude or just whatever I've done—from now on you need to tell me what those things are and I will give it my best effort to stop. But if the problem is that just me being here makes you angry, and given that Spain didn't give you a choice in the matter, then I'm giving you the opportunity right now to tell me to leave."

For the next few seconds, no one said anything at all. Italy caught Germany's eye and excitedly nodded to show his approval while Spain just sat there looking stunned. Romano's reaction, when it eventually came, was nothing like Germany might have expected—his gaze did not falter, but just for this single moment the expression he wore seemed strangely subdued and soft.

"Are you kidding? Are you seriously leaving it up to _me_ to decide whether you should haul your ass out of here?"

"It's probably a little too late to be acting like a jerk now, Romano," Spain said, grinning slightly. "That face you just made was really cute, you should have seen it."

"Oh my God. I didn't make a fucking face! You shut the fuck up or I'm kicking _you_ out of your house!"

"I saw it too, though!" Italy chirped. "It's okay, Romano, I understand! If Germany ever said something like that to me I'd probably make a face too—see, Germany, I told you only a jerk would keep hating you after you'd said something as nice as that—"

"I _do_ still hate him!" Romano groaned.

Germany had no idea how he was supposed to interpret this response but decided to intervene before things turned ugly again.

"Leave Romano alone, the both of you. It hasn't even been that long since you two were in tears for upsetting him."

"Yeah, you fuckers better—" Romano froze as he cheeks went bright red, mortified either because Germany had just once again said something kind or just because he took issue with agreeing with Germany on a fundamental level. "_All_ of you shut up! Jesus Christ!"

"Okay, I'm sorry, we won't tease you anymore!" Italy promised, still happily. "You should hurry up and give Germany an answer though, Romano. It's getting late and if he has to think about getting a train ticket and finding a place to stay or something—"

"I already told you I didn't give a fuck whether he stayed or not, you asshole," Romano ground out. "And he obviously told you what he was going to say already so why didn't you just fucking tell him what I told you, fucker?"

"I did tell him, but he just wanted to make sure. Remember you said it before France got involved, so—"

"Wait, really? Why didn't you tell me this, Roma? You really didn't mind if Germany was here all this time?"

"I _did_ mind, but I already told you it was too much effort to care as long as he didn't bother me." Romano glared at the table like this was a painful thing to admit. "What really pissed me off was you and Veneziano acting like such obnoxious douche bags and setting this up without telling me—"

"And I really am sorry, Roma!" Spain craned his neck to try to meet Romano's eyes again. "You've never talked to me about it so I don't think I ever realized how bad this really was and I assumed so long as Ita and I were here—"

"That a miracle was going to occur?" Romano deadpanned.

"Well no, but—"

This time Romano sighed. "Just—fuck. I don't care. Germany, just stay away from me and I'll stay away from you. That's all. I'm not going to make you get out."

"But where's_ that_ going to get us?" asked Spain, pouting. "That's not how you make friends with somebody, I hope you know."

"At what point did I say I _wanted_ to make friends with him? You decided that on your own too."

"Yeah, but Romanito—"

"Calling me that is _not_ going to help change my mind, Spain."

"I'm not necessarily here to make friends either," Germany interrupted. "But I would rather get to a point where he can tolerate one than just keep going as we have been. I wouldn't risk leaving my brother in charge of taking care of my house if I didn't expect progress to happen."

"But Romano's telling you to stay, right? So there's still hope, right?" Italy had his elbows on the table as he leaned in excitedly. "Romano, is staying away from you the only rule he has to follow? If you have more I think he wouldn't mind since Germany really likes rules."

"Trust me, it'd be a long fucking list, Veneziano."

"Then I think I can deal with one instruction," Germany said, more confident than before. _Finally_ it seemed like something was going smoothly and according to plan. Maybe this would be the part where he could finally stop asking himself whether he was really going to fail at a _vacation_, because that just might be the most pathetic thing he could think of. "So if you don't actually mind, Romano, then I'm going to assume I'm not doing anything wrong after all," he added. "I'll try not to bother you, but I will expect that you will do like I said and inform me of any issues that come up, instead of just yelling at whoever's closest. Do we have an agreement?"

Both Spain and Italy immediately became still and watchful, preparing for the possibility of hearing 'no.' Instead, Romano just leveled his gaze at Germany him and snorted.

"Fine."

"Good. So let's aim for no more fights."

"I'll try."

"Look at you, Romano, being all cool and reasonable right now!" said Spain, nudging him in the side. He could have been teasing, but the look on his face said he was genuinely impressed—and relieved. "If you acted like this a little more often I bet you'd be really popular, huh?"

"Why do you _always_ have to say the most embarrassing shit?" Romano complained, loudly. He seemed to be blushing in places that were already red. "I don't _like_ getting into fights, believe it or not, and you're just—aghh!" He jerked his hand off the table like he'd been burned. "What the _fuck_, Spain? _How fucking long have you been doing that?_"

"Oh wow, I guess I just never stopped holding your hand from earlier. We're bad at paying attention, huh?"

"Bullsh—" Romano paused and narrowed his eyes at him. It seemed he didn't want to accuse Spain of having it there on _purpose_ because that might carried certain implications so he punched him weakly in the arm instead. "You're such an idiot."

"Well!" Italy cut in, cheerfully. "I'm glad we're happy with each other now but I'm getting sleepy. Can Germany and I go to bed soon?"

"Yes, of course you can!" said Spain, smiling warmly. "There's no reason to stay up if you're tired, Romano and I can keep each other company just fine. We got up pretty late today so I think it's safe to say we've both got a few hours left in us."

"Dare I even ask how long you two slept in?" Germany said, unable to help himself.

"Are you asking when we woke up or when we actually got out of bed?"

"Forget it, I'm sorry I asked."

"You probably didn't want to hear the answer anyway." Italy got out of his chair and covered his mouth right in time for a big yawn. "You're coming with me, right Germany? Or did you want to stay?"

"No, I'm tired too, I'll come."

"Okay, nighty night everybody, we'll talk more tomorrow!"

"Good night!" said Spain.

"G'night," said Romano, a little delayed.

Grinning, Italy yanked Germany from his chair and back out into the hall—Germany didn't dare look back and he didn't even care if Romano was boring holes into the back of his head or if he already turned his attention on Spain. Germany squeezed Italy's hand as he felt his spirits lifting, and the promise of a soft bed waiting for him and a fresh start in the morning could not have been more appreciated.

"Germany?" Italy asked, once they'd stopped in front of his room. "Do you want me to sleep in my room or yours?"

"I don't care, either's fine. Though I'm sure you you already have your sights set on being with me."

"I think I'm willing to risk getting in trouble again." Italy gave him a look that Germany certainly _hoped_ wasn't meant to be as suggestive as it was. "I should go take a shower first though. Are you gonna take one too?"

"Just this once I think I'd honestly rather put it off until morning."

"I can tell we're all rubbing off on you already, Germany." Italy even seemed a little proud of him. "Okay, I'll try to be quick, don't fall asleep before I get back!"

Italy disappeared into his room with a little wave and Germany went to his own, yawning as he searched through his bags to find something to sleep in. This combination of feeling victorious and very tired was turning out to be a dangerous combination—all at once he felt like the opportunity to drop straight into bed was calling him, urging him to put off all the usual things he did at bedtime. In the end he made a compromise with himself by going to wash out his mouth and roll into bed with his phone in hand immediately afterward.

The first thing Germany noticed once his phone's screen had lit was that he didn't have nearly as many messages as he'd been expecting. It wasn't that he'd _wanted_ to return from his vacation and find out the country had gone to hell in his absence, of course but it was strangely disappointing to him all the same. Italy was the one to suggest he turn it off today, to avoid the temptation of it letting it distract him, though he almost hadn't done it just in case someone would need to contact him the one day he had it off. Maybe there was a small part of him that wanted some validation for taking the matter so seriously, but it seemed were fine back at home and that was nothing to be unhappy about.

The two messages he _did_ receive, however, were of the positive variety: both were from Prussia, the first asking if he'd made it to Spain's house in one piece and the second asking whether it was normal for Blackie to get her head stuck under the sofa (with pictures included, of course). Germany knew that Prussia was almost certainly still awake—and also probably in the middle of marathon gaming session, or whatever it was that had him yelling on Friday nights—so he felt no guilt in sending a quick reply. He told Prussia not to worry about him and that he would call to check back sometime in the morning.

"Germany?" The door creaked open and light from the hall striped across the bed. "Are you all changed?"

"I'm changed. You don't think Romano's going to keep on trying to enforce his bedroom reassignments, is he?"

Italy shut the door behind him before bouncing over. Germany put his phone down and stretched to turn out the light.

"Probably not. I'd be willing to bet Romano only got mad at us earlier because he barged in at a bad time." Germany dutifully turned his head as Italy pulled off his bathrobe and dove in under the covers. His hair was still damp. "He was probably just mad at all of us when he was complaining about who got what room. That's how Romano is when he's upset, he gets unreasonable and sends mixed messages and everyone ends up confused. Not that I'm much better about making sense when _I_ get mad. Oh well, what I'm saying is that you don't have to worry. By now I'm sure Spain's keeping Romano plenty busy."

"And I'm just supposed to imagine what that means, am I?"

"They're probably just talking, is what I meant," Italy laughed. He pulled himself up slightly and put his weight on his elbow like he considered this a great time for a chat. "You seem a lot better now, Germany. I'm glad. For a while there you were getting me worried about you and that's backwards from normal, you know?"

"Well I'm sorry, but I'm sure you've noticed that my first day here didn't make for a very smooth transition. And we all have certain things that we take for granted because we're used to them, but when we lose those things you just get stuck on missing them for a while."

"You know what?" Italy brushed his fingers against Germany's cheek affectionately."I think that as much as Romano needs to work on cooperating, _you_ need to work on being more flexible. I don't always act the right way when I'm at your house or someplace else away from home but I can usually accept a new situation pretty easy. Don't you ever think that might be one of your weaknesses? Come to think of it, you need to be more spontaneous, too. I don't know how you ever manage to have any fun with as much planning as you do, you know? I'd get bored if everything stayed the same and I always knew what I was going to do the next day, I think. I like surprises."

"I don't."

"I know you don't. But then you always end up getting all jumbled up when things don't go the way you planned them," Italy pointed out. "And how often do things _really_ go exactly the way you planned?"

"When I'm around you it's usually close to never."

"Then you just proved my point! I think that's the big difference between how you think and how we think, you know. Here at Spain's house we don't really care if things go exactly right or exactly wrong because usually everything ends up okay! And when you make mistakes it can be hard for a while, but then you learn from them and get smarter."

"That might _sound_ nice, but in the real world it's not a good idea to just let things go wrong," said Germany. He spoke in a serious manner but yanked Italy's elbow out from underneath him.. "I'd rather be prepared for the worst than prepared to—learn my lesson, or whatever it is that you're talking about."

"You're the biggest stick in the mud I know, Germany," Italy told him, smiling again. "I think you just don't want to admit there could be another way of doing things. I think you're just as stubborn as Romano. What do you think about _that_?"

"I think you're making me feel even more exhausted and this conversation needs to end," replied Germany, rolling the other way. "Italy, tomorrow I promise I'll try to be as adventurous as you want me to be and I'm sure I'll have more fun than anyone could possibly handle but right now I just want to go to sleep."

"C'mon, that's changing the subject and you know it!"

"I'm not changing the subject, I'm deciding that I'm not going to talk anymore. It's different."

"You took a longer nap than I did today, you're not nearly as tired as I am," Italy grumbled, nuzzling at his shoulder. "It's funny to me now but I always used to think of you as somebody who never had a problem staying awake, you know."

"That's because you got to know me when there was this war going on," Germany muttered, eyes shut tight, "and wars tend to decent job of keeping you up at night. Do you remember the part about how we were going to sleep, Italy?"

"But I was going to give you a good night kiss first. Do you not want me to?"

Germany blinked his eyes open again. His brain, as per usual, wanted him to give the most logical and reasonable answer to that question, but tonight he was feeling a little daring and thought he might listen to what his heart (and to some degree, his groin) was saying instead. He turned back to face Italy.

"If you're really dying to you can."

Germany _really_ wasn't expecting was for Italy to kiss him quite so fervently on the mouth—normally a good night kiss was something innocent and meant for the cheek or forehead, or at least this was what Germany had always assumed. Still, strange definition of a good night kiss or not, Italy was a good kisser, a _really_ good kisser, and that alone didn't leave much to complain about.

When Germany began to kiss back, Italy made a happy noise and pushed back harder. This was yet another strange thing about kissing Italy—it was always inexplicably thrilling, even though they'd already done it hundreds of times. Sometimes Germany wondered when something as stupid and pointless as kissing was going to get old for him but so far it hadn't. In fact, sometimes he wished that he _did_ find it boring, and then he might be a lot less frustrated when he wanted to kiss Italy but he couldn't for whatever reason, usually because he really didn't have time for this nonsense.

Except for when he did, like right now. Then it was nice.

But then, like most good things, everything ended around the time that Germany was beginning to sorely miss having enough oxygen in his lungs and Italy had gotten a little too enthusiastic and moved to be half on top of him. A few key body parts accidentally made contact seconds later, which caused Germany to recognize this as a potentially dangerous operation that he needed to abort.

"Italy, hold on." Germany forced him back to a responsible distance and breathed raggedly for a while as Italy looked down at him, confused. "You realize you're naked, don't you?"

"Yeah?"

Germany sat up, hands on Italy's shoulders. There was no safe place for him to look.

"I can't do this while you're naked."

"Oh."

"I don't mind kissing," Germany explained, quickly, "but I don't want us to—you know. I wouldn't want us doing anything inappropriate right now."

"_Ooooh_," said Italy, as it dawned on him what he meant. "But I wasn't thinking that way, honest! I mean, I know I don't have clothes on but that's for a different reason and I didn't mean to get you all excited or whatever—"

"No, it's not like I was—I wasn't—excited. I wasn't. Italy, let's just not do anything else, okay? Let's actually, really go to sleep." Germany let go of him and covered himself with his half of the blankets once Italy had flopped back down. Truly, sometimes dropping a subject felt like it was all he could do to protect what was left of his sanity, and he was pretty sure he'd already lost most of it in the last thirty seconds. "This is Spain's house and I'd really rather not go overboard."

"I understand." Italy rearranged his side of the blankets as well, half-giggling. "It's alright, Germany, really! Don't look so guilty, I'm okay with it! I'll just make sure I have some clothes on for next time."

"Next time?"

"I know how you are, Germany," Italy said, laughing still. "I just forget your policy on kissing sometimes, that's all. I appreciate you trying to be a gentleman, though."

"_Please_ go to sleep. You're making everything worse."

"Okay, sorry, I'm shutting up!" Italy wiggled as close to Germany as he could. "Good night, get lots of sleep, okay?"

Germany sighed and laid his arm over Italy's waist.

"Good night."

"Did you really think we were gonna have sex just now?"

"Good _night_, Italy."

* * *

><p>It was a full hour later when Germany determined he was <em>never<em> going to fall sleep, try as he might.

Some people were simply born into this world being able to sleep through anything—Italy was an obvious example—but Germany had never been so fortunate. Any sufficiently loud noise could keep him up for a long, long time, and it didn't seem to matter if the cause was a thunderstorm or barking dogs or things going bump in the night because it all woke him up just the same. Prussia occasionally complained about having this very same problem, but his sleeping patterns were already so erratic that Germany imagined it couldn't be much of an inconvenience to him anyway.

In any case, tonight's reason for being kept awake was a combination of factors: first there was Italy, who was being annoyingly adorable and clinging in his sleep, keeping Germany's arm locked in a vice-like grip, and second there was the seemingly endless conversation going on upstairs. What on earth, Germany wanted to know, could be _so_ important that Spain and Romano had to be talking about it _right now and right over his head_? Though it was admittedly not very loud, for whatever reason Germany still kept trying to interpret and make sense of every little sound he heard instead of letting his brain settle down to sleep. He could have tried stuffing his fingers in his ears or putting his pillow over the head to deaden the noise but he knew from experience that would only make falling asleep even harder.

Germany sighed and looked over at Italy, slumbering peacefully with his hair in his eyes. He still had vivid memories of Italy being the worst bed mate you could ever imagine, always flopping around and stealing blankets and mumbling in his sleep, but things had changed tremendously since those early days of knowing one another. A lot of it had to do with Italy slowly learning to stay still and quiet to keep everyone happy, but Germany knew that he looked at the matter in an entirely new light than before. However humiliating it was to admit, at some point he'd grown perfectly comfortable with falling asleep next to Italy, and the sunny greeting he received each morning when he woke up made him kind of happy.

Eventually Germany decided that he might as well do something with the time he was wasting, like go take that shower he'd put off, and his mouth feeling a little less squeaky clean than usual was starting to bother him too. He managed to pry his arm free—afterwards Italy just curled up tighter and slept on—but by the time Germany had gotten the chance to sit up it seemed that the noise from upstairs had stopped altogether. For a brief moment he was grew hopeful that maybe now he could go to sleep at last.

But of course he wasn't, no, when had anything ever been so easy? The silence had broken and while it wasn't any louder, now the voices upstairs definitely did not have the cadence of a pleasant conversation. Germany knew that he shouldn't, but just in case he was now listening to the beginnings of an argument he couldn't help but strain himself to hear. The_ last_ thing he needed was for Romano and Spain to stir up more animosity, especially if it ended with all his efforts at maintaining peace going down the drain.

Or—hold on. A few of those sounds did not seem to hold up with Germany's theory. And some of those noises were definitely—they sounded like—

Oh God. They definitely were_ not_ fighting.

Alright, maybe not definitely, but all evidence now seemed to point to at least some heavy petting going on upstairs. There was too much quiet, too many odd, irregular sounds to be anything else, and some of those noises—God, even worse than just having to consider this new possibility, Germany soon realized, was the fact that Romano apparently made noises, high-pitched, keening little noises that pierced through walls, and they were exactly like the ones that Italy sometimes made, when he and Germany occasionally found themselves very naked and in compromising positions of their own.

"Things going bump in the night," Germany muttered wryly to himself, then threw himself back down onto the mattress with a despairing groan.

What was _wrong_ with these Mediterraneans? Was is honestly this impossible to stay out of each other's pants for just a single weekend? Was there no sense of shame or the concept of common courtesy here? Christ, this wouldn't even be happening if he was sleeping in the next room over like Spain had originally intended. Why? _Why?_

This was the worst for so many reasons. Germany had half a mind to knock himself out on the headboard just to make the situation less awkward for himself because the more he thought about it, the more undesirable the images that paraded themselves through his imagination. He looked over at Italy, still sound asleep, and felt his chest filling with guilt while other parts of his body—well.

Germany forced himself out of bed at last and decided that if he was going to take a shower at all then he'd better make it a cold one.

* * *

><p><strong>Culture Notes<strong>

I think I had Spain using the name "Romanito" but I didn't explain what it meant. The suffix –ito in Spanish means 'little,' so when you add it to the end of a name you get a cute nickname for someone. By the way, Spain refers to Italy as Ita-chan in the original Japanese so I considered having him use -ito with Italy's name too but nothing sounded good. Leaving it as Ita was the best I felt I could do, though if any Spanish speakers have a cutesy alternative I'd be willing to go back through the fic and replace it.


	8. Chapter 8

The second time Germany found himself forced awake was much later, but by this time the sky was light outside and upstairs was quiet, at least. Now it was his phone waking him up, though instead of it being his alarm it was instead the obnoxious blaring of some unfamiliar pop song as his ringtone, probably because a certain _someone_ had changed it again while he wasn't looking.

Germany blearily swiped at his phone several times before he managed to pick it up and put it to his ear.

"Yeah, hello?"

"Well hey there, West!" It seemed Prussia was full of energy this morning, at least. "You said you'd call in the morning and then you didn't, so I'm calling you instead! Everything okay? You're still alive, right?"

"I'm alive. D'you know what time it is?"

"Germany?" Italy stirred beside him finally, yawning as he lifted his head up from his pillow. "Who'z'it? Something wrong?"

Germany waved his hand.

"No, it's nothing important, it's just my brother."

"I'm not important?" Prussia repeated. He was either pretending to be hurt or he really was, sometimes it was hard to tell. "Gee, thanks a lot. And it's a little after ten, or it was the last time I looked. Why, don't they have clocks over there? Or is that just a German thing now?"

"I just haven't looked, you woke me up just now. And sorry, I didn't mean you were unimportant—"

"_I_ just woke _you_ up?" Prussia sounded flabbergasted. "You're seriously telling me that the same person I've known since he was an itty bitty West has been _sleeping_ up until now? You actually _slept in_?"

"I guess?" Germany rubbed at his eyes and watched as Italy sat up and stretched, blankets falling around his hips. He quickly refocused his gaze. "I must've forgotten to set my alarm."

"Holy crap, though. Are you _sure_ this is West I'm talking to? Not some weird alternate universe West while the real one's been abducted by aliens?"

"I was up late so it wasn't like I got extra sleep, Prussia. Don't act like it's a sign of the apocalypse."

"Oh alright, but still—you're the only one I know who'd call sleeping 'till eighty-thirty on a weekend 'sleeping in.'"

"And you're the only one I know who'd call sleeping well past noon perfectly normal and acceptable. Speaking of, what on earth are you doing up this early?"

"_You_ put me in charge of babysitting your dogs, don't you remember? I had to wake up early to take care of 'em since they all jumped on my bed and made sad faces at me until I was up. And a little bit ago I even took them out for a walk and let them chase some squirrels for a while, so don't say I don't love you."

"I wasn't going to. Thanks, though."

"You're welcome. And since I did a good deed I'm sure you won't mind if France is over some time tonight, right?" Prussia must have been grinning on the other end of the line. "He called last night and said he was getting wasted and then the party would continue over here, so—"

"I already know about it," Germany sighed. "Or I knew about the getting wasted part, at least. And you don't need permission if you were just going to do it anyway, do you? It's alright as long as nothing gets broken and the vomit gets cleaned up."

"Man, you're telling me you would have said it's okay even if I _didn't_ go squirrel hunting with your dogs? You pick the weirdest times to not need buttering up."

"Well I'm sorry. I'm on vacation and can't bring myself to care, okay?" Germany looked over again. "Prussia, Italy's poking me in the arm so I think I better go."

"Oh ho, I see how it is. Is that what the kids are calling it now?"

"Trust me, I did not mean that as euphemism." Italy seemed to grasp Prussia's side of the conversation because he laughed. "If everything's fine over there I'm going to hang up now and call you again later."

"Nah, you don't have to do that! I just wanted to make sure you were okay and everything since I know how being at Spain's house can be. I was worried about you, considering how much you hate change and all."

"Well thank you for your concern, Prussia, but I think I'm doing okay. I was only offering to call to make sure you wouldn't get lonely."

"Lonely? Me? Even after France leaves I'll have the internet to keep me company so don't you worry."

"Well if you're sure—"

"Sure I'm sure. You just go have fun now and do whatever it was you were doing with Italy—"

"I wasn't doing anything, I _told_ you I just woke up—"

"Sure, whatever you say, West." He laughed to himself, then laughed even harder when Germany just sighed in response. "But I'm serious, just go have fun and relax. I don't want you coming back unless you're properly chilled out and sunburned to bits."

"I hope not, but thanks."

"Tschüß! I'll see you Monday."

"Tschüß."

Germany put his phone back down and narrowed his eyes at Italy, who was now on his stomach and humming to himself.

"You've been awake for five minutes and you're bored already?"

"_Maaaybe._" Italy got up on his knees and leaned over to kiss Germany on the cheek. "But mostly I just wanted the chance to tell you good morning, so—_mwah!_ Good morning, Germany! Did you sleep good?"

"Well enough. It took me a while to fall asleep but on the plus side I don't have to shower anymore." Germany trained his eyes away from Italy's again, suddenly remembering the things going through his head last night and feeling a fresh wave of guilt wash over him. It was entirely Spain and Romano's fault, too—maybe it was only a spur of the moment thing for them, but still, if Germany had stopped himself from going any further with Italy last night then _some_ people could have tried a little self-restraint too.

"Is it _raining_ outside?" Italy scrambled over Germany and went to the window, throwing open the curtains with absolutely no regard for his current state of dress. Once Germany managed to stop focusing on just this fact he saw that it was indeed drizzling. "Aw man, it's gonna be all gross and wet outside!"

"Staying in won't be that bad, will it?"

"But staying in is _boring_!" Italy grumpily came back over and tossed himself onto his side of the bed. "What's the point of coming to Spain's house if you're just going to sit inside the whole time?"

"I want to say because there's air conditioning, but I get your point." Germany sat up and gently touched Italy's arm. "I'm sorry about the phone call, I hope you got all the sleep you wanted."

"Don't worry, I got plenty of sleep!" Italy instantly went from smiling to frowning as he watched Germany pull his blankets off. "Aw, are you getting up already? Need to go to the bathroom?"

"That's something I was planning to do, at least." Germany paused. "But I guess I was supposed to try lying in bed for a while, too. Would you rather have me stay with you?"

Italy beamed once more.

"Well, you don't have to but—"

"Fifteen minutes, then," Germany told him, moving the blankets back into place. "That's about as much time as I think I'll be able to handle. But after that I'm getting up for the day and no whining."

"I won't whine, I promise!" Italy scooted closer and put his head down on Germany's shoulder with a contented sigh. "You're weird, Germany. Most people wouldn't have to make themselves stay in bed and be comfortable."

"We've talked about this before, Italy. When I sit around like this it just feels pointless and lazy."

"But part of taking a vacation is learning to embrace your inner laziness," Italy told him, nodding wisely. "If you don't give yourself any breaks then you're just going to overwork yourself and you know that isn't healthy. And guess who I know who doesn't give himself breaks?"

"I don't work _that_ hard, Italy."

"You work plenty hard," Italy said. "So let's just lay here for a while and think about how nice it is to be warm and comfy, okay? Think about how nice it is to have some spare time and be all relaxed and stuff. Pretty soon your stress will all go away and you'll feel much better."

"You give yourself _too many_ breaks," Germany insisted. "And I'm serious, I can deal without doing anything productive but doing nothing at all just feels weird to me. We've got a lot more time for getting things done than most people get, you know. I don't want to waste all that."

Italy shrugged.

"I just always thought getting things done wasn't the only thing that living your life was about."

"But—" Germany wondered why it was that he ended up the losing side of these arguments with Italy so often, especially when Italy's logic always seemed so very simple. It was a very mysterious phenomenon. "As long as I'm sitting here fighting the urge to get out of bed aren't I just going to make myself _more_ stressed out?"

"This is going to sound more like something _you'd_ say to _me_, but—" Italy looked up at him with his best imitation of one of Germany's own expressions. "Have you ever _tried_? If you haven't ever tried then you wouldn't know if it might feel nice, would you?"

Germany almost wanted to continue arguing, but he had to admit there might be a tiny bit of truth to what he was saying. So instead he tried being silent, and he tried taking deep breaths and letting go of all his tension. He listened to Italy breathing and the sound of their hearts beating together, and he closed his eyes and tried his best to think about nothing.

"Relaxed yet?"

"It's—sort of working. But I still feel stupid."

"Well don't!" Italy thumped his head against his shoulder and laughed. "Think about other stuff instead."

So Germany tried again, but try as he might, there was no way he could force himself to just let everything go like Italy apparently could, and even if he pretended he was trying to make himself go to sleep he still couldn't keep his thoughts from swirling around in his head. At times like this he wished he knew how to meditate or at least have a _little_ control of himself, because then maybe at least he could stop thinking about how dumb this was or the things he could be doing or about last night, because _oh God stop thinking about that, stop, stop, stop_.

"I give up," Germany announced, after he'd caught himself thinking yet again about all the stupidly attractive parts of Italy. "I wanted to try but I can't. I have to get up, trying to make myself calm down is frying my brain."

Italy sighed, clearly a little disappointed, but he hugged Germany anyway.

"Well you tried, right? I know you can do it, you just need practice! We can try again some other time."

"Can some other time be after breakfast? I'd really like to get something to eat after dinner ended up being so small."

"Um." Italy cringed as he looked at him. "Germany, I think I have some bad news for you about how breakfast usually works at Spain's house."

* * *

><p>It turned out that breakfast was not as bad as Germany had been expecting. It was, in fact, even worse.<p>

"I got a late start so all I made was coffee," Spain said, putting three mugs down on the table. "But I can make some toast for you if you want, Germany."

"Could you please?" Germany's stomach rumbled audibly—he could tell he wasn't the only one who heard it because and he saw Italy put his hand over his mouth to suppress a snort. "I'm just used to having some sort of breakfast, I didn't know you don't eat."

"No, sometimes I eat, I'm just not always hungry in the morning—"

"Spain!" Romano yelled, pulling his head out of the refrigerator. "Where'd you put your fucking juice?"

"I know it's there, Roma, you'll just have to look a little harder." Spain pointed vaguely as he busied himself with opening up the bread. "Did you want one piece or two, Germany?"

"Two, please."

"And would you like some too, Ita?"

"Yes, please! Can I have cinnamon on mine?"

"I swear to _God_, Spain, there's not any fucking juice in here!"

"I'm pretty sure it's right here behind the milk, Romano," said Italy, grabbing the milk carton for himself. He pointed. "It's this bottle that says 'juice' on it, see?"

"I can read, thank you," Romano grumbled. "And I'm not stupid, I just didn't see it!"

"No one said you were stupid! It was just hiding is all."

Romano muttered something incoherent in response as he uncapped the bottle and drank from it. Spain watched from over his shoulder and shook his head.

"Romano, you're the only one I know who can get mad over juice."

"Romano can get mad at _anything_," Italy pointed out, warmly.

"Will you leave me and my juice _alone_?" Romano sat down in his chair with his knees pulled up to his chest and fixed his eyes on the wall. "Jesus Christ, the both of you."

"Ita said it, not me." Spain put two plates of toast down on the table and a comforting hand on Romano's shoulder, smiling. "I'm sorry, I know we promised not to tease you anymore, but you know you make it really hard not to whenever your face gets all—ow, _ow_! Did you see what he just did? He _hit_ me!"

"I was aiming for your nuts, you're lucky I missed."

Even now with a mouthful of toast to keep him occupied, Germany still found himself struggling to keep his mind from straying to unpleasant things. Somehow it seemed like no matter when he looked Spain had his eyes on Romano, or else Romano was casually licking his lips as he gazed back, and now someone just had to go and bring up the subject of nuts. Had Romano and Spain _always_ looked at each other like this, or had it just become that much more noticeable over night? Germany knew having to face them this morning was going to be awkward for him from the start, but if he didn't know better he might have thought they were doing this to him on purpose. Surely a person couldn't look so infatuated with someone else by sheer accident.

"Are you okay, Spain?" Italy asked, looking concerned. "Romano didn't hurt you, did he?"

"Don't worry, he mostly just hurt my feelings as per usual." Spain gingerly massaged his stomach but nonetheless managed to look perfectly happy about it. "But if Romano's beating me up again I'm just glad he's back in a good mood."

"I did _not_ beat you up. Do you _want_ me to beat you up?"

"Romano, hitting him isn't nice even if he did kind of deserve it," scolded Italy. "You need to start using your words and not your fists when Spain brings up how cute he thinks you are, okay?"

"_Veneziano_!" Romano groaned. "Thanks for broadcasting what he gonna say, idiot!"

"Romano, c'mon, let's calm down before you launch across the table at him, okay?" Spain said it like it was a joke, but Germany wasn't entirely sure it was. "Anyway, what do you guys think about going to do something special today since it's raining out? Does that sound good?"

"Something special sounds fun!" Italy raised his eyebrows while sipping from his mug. "What're we gonna do?"

"Well, would you rather hear about it now or wait and let it be a surprise?"

"Ooh! I'd rather be surprised!"

"I don't," Romano said, flatly. "I'd rather hear what it is now than find out too late that you've got something stupid planned."

"I wouldn't put it like Romano did, but I think I agree," said Germany. Seeing the disappointed look on Spain's face he quickly added: "It's not that I don't have any faith in you, but I do think I'd just like to hear what it is first."

Romano's gaze met his own, frowning at him in a very how-dare-you-agree-with-me sort of way, and Germany hastily re-focused back on his very interesting plate of toast. He couldn't help it—normally he didn't care what people did in their own bedrooms but this was _Romano_, and this was one case where he'd never wanted such a clear mental image of things. It was especially horrifying now that he knew that he and Italy even made the same little whimpering sounds, and now it was even harder than normal to disassociate them in his mind. But no, he _had_ to stop thinking about it! He just knew that if he gave this any more thought that some blood vessel in his brain was probably going to burst and kill him on the spot. In fact he was starting to _wish_ something would kill him before these swirling thoughts led him yet again towards wondering whether there were other similarities between them, like the gasping and quivering, and getting all flushed and—

Crap.

This was all Romano's fault, Germany decided. He wasn't sure why he kept considering Spain to be completely blameless in this, aside from the obvious fact that Spain was a very nice person who would never torture him in this manner, but Romano was definitely the one at fault. He just _was_. Germany no longer even knew why he'd felt even an ounce of sympathy for Romano yesterday, because clearly if a blood vessel in his brain really did pop then everyone was going to remember him forever as that one pseudo-immortal being who died of embarrassment. He simply could not let himself be that nation.

"Well, how about I give a few hints?" Spain turned his coffee in his hands, still looking eager despite Romano's skeptical expression. Germany, meanwhile, felt a pat on his leg—Italy was looking over at him with a concerned look, perhaps wondering if he really _had_ just suffered an aneurysm. "If I give you and Germany some clues then you can have an idea of what it is but Ita can still be excited!"

"Spain, you know you're terrible about hints, right? You _always_ spoil shit."

"Aw, really? But I always try so hard…"

"We always try to act surprised anyway when you give us birthday presents and stuff!" Italy chirped. "Don't we, Romano?"

Romano snorted like of _course_ he'd never do such a thing, but Spain smiled all the same.

"Well, even if I give horrible hints, can I at least say that what I have planned is going to involve needing clothes to swim in and probably sunscreen?"

Both Italy and Romano's eyes lit up at the same time.

"The beach? We're going to the beach?"

"But isn't that a long way away?" Germany asked, doubtfully. "You should know better than I do but the coast has got to be hours from here."

"Madrid's got a beach now, so unless he's crazy I'm sure he means that one." Romano gave Spain a look—Germany thought about it _again_—but then he paused for a second. "Unless he doesn't, because it's raining. You don't mean Madrid's beach, do you?"

"Even on a day like today it'd be way too crowded," Spain said, with a little smile. "So I was thinking more of somewhere like Valencia. If we all piled into the car I bet I could get us there in a couple hours."

"You _are_ crazy," Romano said, though he sounded far less appalled than he should have and instead more excited than ever. "I know we get to bend the rules with this kinda stuff but you'd still have to speed the whole way to get there that fast. You'd get yourself arrested in no time."

"Who's ever heard of a nation getting arrested? That'd be ridiculous, Romano."

"Holy shit, you're _serious_, aren't you?"

"I _like_ this idea!"

"Well _I_ don't," said Germany. "Spain, you can't just speed half way across the country because it sounds _fun_. You know they put speed limits on highways for a reason, right?"

"Says the one with the autobahn," Italy pointed out, wryly.

"_Yes_, Italy, I realize, but we also have an _recommended_ speed limit, because we'd prefer everyone go at a reasonable speed that won't get people killed left and right."

"But none of us are in danger of dying, so it won't be a problem!" Spain said, in a way that Germany supposed was meant to sound comforting. "And I like to think I'm a good driver, after all."

"_I_ think you are, Spain!" Italy eagerly drained the last of his coffee. "Germany, you saw him! He was giving us a tour of the city _and_ tearing down the roads all the way here, remember?"

"Yes, I do remember, and I also remember telling him to slow down and follow his own laws multiple times. But he didn't."

"There's nothing wrong with driving fast, Germany, me and Romano do it all the time! Besides, I think it'd be fun to go on a big road trip together! The only thing I'd be worried about is whether Spain's car could take it."

"Yeah, that's true enough," Romano admitted. "His car's kind of a piece of shit."

"Hey! You can insult me, but I will not take insults about my car." Spain knocked him in the arm. "That car I have now is the best car I've ever owned."

"Maybe it used to be, but it's still a piece of shit now that you've been trying to run it into the ground all this time."

"I think we should plan on doing something that _isn't _going to the beach," Germany tried again. "There's plenty of things to do around here that involve being inside and out of the weather, isn't there? We could go to a nice museum or something, couldn't we? And if we're concerned about money I wouldn't have a problem with staying in."

"I think you're the only one who doesn't want to go, Germany," said Italy, unhelpfully. "Even Romano wants to come."

"Oh fuck you."

"You'll be in the car with _all_ of us for a couple hours, though," Spain reminded him. "Including Germany. You're still sure?"

Romano's face fell somewhat, but he seemed determined.

"But you'd let me open the window and yell out it, right?"

"Sure you can."

"I'll consider it a fair trade. Do you have shorts I can borrow?"

"You can borrow mine, Romano!"

"We're not even considering not doing this anymore, are we?" Germany said, miserably. He really was going to end up getting sunburned to bits. Dammit, Prussia. "Italy, please, can't you convince them to do _anything_ else?"

"Nope!" Italy turned in his chair. "Germany, it's been so long since we've both been at the beach together! I really, really want you to come!"

Germany knew he'd already lost the battle the moment he saw that hopeful little smile on Italy's face. He'd done a lot of stupid things for that smile since yesterday, and this would just have to be added to the list.

**Culture Notes**

*Madrid's urban beach was opened to the public in April of 2011. Go google pictures of it, it's pretty neato.

*Valencia is roughly a four hour drive from Madrid going at the normal speed limit so… yes, for a law abiding non-country this would be nuts. But after seeing Italy drive I'm pretty convinced the Mediterraneans all drive like maniacs and they can probably also magic themselves around a bit, especially considering that Italy _managed to drive Japan back home from Europe_. Don't ask me to explain how I think it works though, who knows!


	9. Chapter 9

Germany couldn't decide whether he was thankful for the rain or hated it. On one hand the cold front coming in had mostly done away with yesterday's melting hot temperatures, making the inside of the car at least comfortable, but on the other hand it was the rain that got him into this situation in the first place.

"How long have we been driving?" Germany asked. He could barely hear himself over the combination of noise produced from the radio playing and the window being open with Romano having his head stuck out of it, shouting obscenities at a car that was driving too slowly ahead of them. "Has it been an hour yet?"

"It's been about thirty minutes," answered Italy, checking. "Why? Need to go to the bathroom again already?"

"No, I was just hoping against hope that we'd been there soon." Germany flopped his head back against the seat. "I've never been so glad to be sitting on the left side so I can't see the speedometer."

"It's not like we've hit anybody yet," Italy said, comfortingly. He held out his bag of mysterious junk food that he'd bought at the gas station earlier. "Want some?"

"No, thank you. Whatever that is it doesn't look very appetizing."

"Would you _quit that_ already?" Spain interrupted. He took one hand off the steering wheel—Germany looked down involuntarily, checking that his seatbelt was nice and tight—and reached out to yank Romano back into his seat. "You don't have to keep yelling after they've changed lanes, okay?"

"It's only fucking sprinkling and they're still going like twenty under the speed limit!" Romano didn't seem _too_ angry about it though—his eyes were brighter than Germany had seem them in a long time so apparently the combination of dangerous speeds and a beach as their destination had put him in a good mood. "I swear to God, there are so many shitty drivers here—your government better start teaching people how not to drive like fucking morons!"

"Roma, I seem to remember you denting someone's bumper the last time I was in your car, so I'm thinking Italians aren't much better—"

"Oh shut up, that was an accident and it was barely a scratch! God, just because you don't like the way I stop—"

"Wait," Italy said, licking crumbs off his fingers, "what's wrong with the way Romano stops?"

"I'm guessing he does exactly the same thing you do," said Germany, without any real malice. "You're always slamming on the breaks at the last possible second and I end up with whiplash."

"I do _not_ drive like that!" Romano snapped, turning around in his seat. "I'm a _way_ better driver than Veneziano!"

"No you're not, Romano! I can drive just fine!"

"I'm already sorry I said anything," Germany announced. "Let's not start arguing, we're going to end up in an accident if Spain gets distracted by the both of you."

"Hm?" Spain looked up from fiddling with the radio. "No, I'm used to it, they won't distract me."

"Oh my God, Spain, keep your eyes on the _road_!"

"It's fine!" Spain cheerfully put both hands back on the steering wheel. "It's not like we've hit anybody yet."

Germany rubbed his hand over his face as Italy nearly fell over laughing. Romano just shook his head and put his arm back out the window, letting his hand swim through the hurricane-force winds outside the car.

"How long are we going to be in Valencia, anyway? Are we staying overnight?"

"Well—I was planning on just driving back home once it got dark, actually. Did you want to stay longer?"

"We're driving a long way to just stay for the afternoon, aren't we?"

"I know, but still—"

"If we go back tonight you'd be driving in the dark while you're already tired," Germany pointed out. This entire time he'd been picturing the inevitable wreck and Spain's car wrapped around a tree or upside-down in a ditch somewhere, but having this happen at night just seemed a hundred times more terrifying. "I hate to say it but maybe we should stay the night just for safety's sake."

"I think we should stay longer too!" Italy said, as he calmed down enough to speak again. "If we drive back tonight that'd be a long time in the car for one day, wouldn't it?"

"I know it'd be boring, but all of us staying at a hotel won't be cheap." Spain went searching his front pocket for his wallet—Germany _would_ have been concerned with how dangerous this was if he hadn't instantly been distracted by Romano's gaze following his hand as it traveled toward his lap. "If everybody's sure about wanting to stay for the night then are you all willing to chip in?"

"What, _you're_ not paying?" demanded Romano. "I thought you were _Spanish_, not Dutch. You were the one talking about being a gracious host and shit, weren't you?"

"Rooms are expensive at this time of year, okay?" Spain was quite clearly giving Romano a look even if Germany couldn't see it from his angle. "I don't have the bottomless wallet you seem to think I do."

"I bet he's only complaining because he didn't bring much money with him," said Italy. Romano glared around the headrest at him but didn't deny it, which even Germany recognized as a sure sign of Italy being right. "But don't worry, Romano! I can pay for the both of us if you'd like me to, I don't mind."

Romano deliberately turned to look in the other direction.

"Fine."

"You're very welcome."

"Hold on, there's another problem," said Germany. "What if we can't _get_ a room? What if everywhere's booked?"

"Hopefully not, but you could be right." Spain paused for a moment before looking over at Romano again and making his voice sound very sweet. "Romanito, would you mind doing us all a favor?"

"Oh Jesus. What are you about to make me do?"

"I'm not going to _make_ you, but could you please use your phone and find a hotel for us? Germany and Ita can't speak Spanish and I'm driving and I'd rather not sleep in the car tonight so—pretty please?"

"Well it _sounds_ like you're making me." Romano went fishing for his phone nonetheless. "You're all lucky I don't want to sleep in the car either."

"Try to find some place close to the beach, Romano!" said Italy, leaning forward. Germany wondered if he too would one day develop the ability to completely ignore Romano's griping. "I want to be able to see the water from out the window! And there should be room service!"

"Let's _not_ aim for anywhere like that, shall we? Roma, how about I give you the names of some cheap places to look for?"

"How about I ignore both of you and look for somewhere that's got _two_ rooms open?" Romano was already scrolling through a list of Valencian hotels. "You all keep talking about one room but I'm _not_ sleeping in the same room with Veneziano and Germany."

Everyone in the car groaned at the same time.

"Oh my _God_, Roma, we're still on this? It's not a big deal if it's just for one night!"

"Shut up! If they're in the same room with us I'm not going to be able to sleep so it _is_ a big deal!"

"But you're okay with us sleeping in the same bed all of a sudden, Romano?"

"Fuck no, one of you had better sleep on the couch!"

"Hey, I _know_ you slept with Spain _twice_ yesterday! How is that any different?"

_Three times, actually_, Germany wanted to say, but just the thought made him want to beat his head against the window immediately afterward. Instead he looked idly down at his watch—his old friend—and saw that a mere fifteen minutes had passed since this conversation had started. He had no idea how they were all going to survive the rest of the trip at this rate.

* * *

><p>When they finally arrived in Valencia, no one was dying to be out of the car quite as badly as Germany. Once they'd finally found a parking spot—possibly the last open spot in the whole city, for all the searching they had to do—Germany was out of the car before Spain had even pulled his keys from the ignition.<p>

"Uh, where's Germany going?" Spain gazed after him, apparently quite confused. Romano took the opportunity to swipe his keys from him and go to the trunk. "Italy, is he okay?"

"Let me check on him," Italy volunteered. He pranced over to the sidewalk and patted Germany gently on the back. "Are you okay, Germany? You didn't get car sick, did you?"

"I don't think I'm car sick as much as I'm just emotionally ill," Germany muttered, back leaned up against the side of the nearest building. The dark look on his face he made was enough to make Italy take a cautious step backward. "Italy, do you have _any_ idea how fast we were going?"

"Faster than the speed limit?" Italy squinted up at Germany's face. "You've got a big wrinkle on your forehead now, you know."

"You always say that."

"No, this one's the one you get when you're annoyed and it's a lot worse." Italy employed his sad-puppy expression and reached up to smooth the wrinkle out. "I'm sorry, Germany. You're mad because of how Spain was driving, right?"

Germany found himself equal parts surprised and relieved that for once in his life, Italy seemed to understand. He dropped his hands and sighed.

"It might be fun to the rest of you, but there's a point where driving like that gets dangerous, alright?" Germany deliberately avoided looking Italy in the eye so he wouldn't be tempted to cave again. "Not dangerous for us but dangerous for everyone else. I knew Spain wasn't likely to get anyone killed, but still—"

"You don't have to go along with stuff just to make me happy, Germany," Italy told him.

Germany was lost for words.

"You're the one who's been telling me since I got here to loosen up. _Which one do you want?_"

Italy thought about it for a second before answering.

"Well—both, I guess?"

"I can't win," said Germany. "Look, I'll be okay, Italy, so please stop giving me that face. If I can just convince Spain to go a reasonable speed on the way back I'll feel much better and everyone can be happy. Just let me have this moment of relief that it's over."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Italy asked. "You're not going to go back home and make them put speed limits on the autobahn now, are you?"

"I was exaggerating a little about the emotional illness," Germany confessed. "I just think Spain should be in jail right about now, that's all."

"Well, just as long as you're going to be okay. Your wrinkle is less wrinkly now, so that's good, right?"

Italy grinned at him brightly and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. At first Germany could only wonder at what he was doing, but once Italy had begun to lean forward he recognized that signal only too well. In the split second he had before Italy had stolen a kiss from him he just barely managed to block his mouth with his hands.

"Mpf?"

"Your brother's been giving us a dirty look for a while now," Germany pointed out, with a meaningful glance. "You better not."

Italy looked over his shoulder and cringed. Even Spain waving his hand in front of Romano's face wasn't enough to distract him from sending them both a furious death glare.

"This is going to be hard," Italy complained. He let go of Germany's shoulders and dropped back down onto his heels. "I know we promised not to make him mad but we can't do _anything_ in front of him!"

* * *

><p>The search for two vacant hotel rooms, despite all of Romano's begging and occasional flirting with hotel employees over the phone, had not been very fruitful (and the flirting must have been really something because at one point Romano had Spain blushing up to his ears). Nowhere they'd checked fit everyone's criteria—every hotel was either too expensive, too far from the beach or completely booked. In the end they finally convinced Romano to let them settle for a moderately priced two-room suite, but once they'd actually seen their lodgings it seemed that he was already having second thoughts.<p>

"The second bed's not going to fit through the door," Romano announced, eyeballing the width of the doorway. "Not unless we take the bed frame apart."

"So?"

"So we'd better start taking the bed apart!"

"Was that your plan all along, Romano?" Spain sighed as he put his luggage down. "I know it's my fault I didn't plan this all out, so I'm sorry, but I still think we did pretty well considering it's tourist season. We don't really need to make anyone sleep in the other room for just one night, do we?"

"Damn right it's your fault," Romano complained, apparently deciding to ignore everything else he'd said. Italy glanced at Germany and sighed quietly. "If you hadn't been a dumbass and—_what the hell do you think you're doing_?"

Germany looked up from setting his suitcase on the floor.

"What?"

"You're not sleeping in here with us!" snapped Romano, pointing out from the room. "If no one's going to listen to me about the beds then you're on the couch!"

"I'm not going to sleep on the couch."

"_Why not?_"

"Because Germany paid his share for the room, didn't he, Romano?" Italy reminded him. "And the couch probably isn't as comfy as the bed."

"Veneziano shut _up_, I'm _trying_ to compromise here!"

"Telling Germany what to do isn't much of a compromise," Italy insisted. "Romano, if me and him in the same bed bothers you so much then maybe _I'll_ go sleep on the couch."

"Maybe you should!"

"Stop, this is stupid," Spain interrupted, grabbing Romano's wrist. "Why can't you just let them sleep together, Romano? Isn't that what they normally do?"

"Not when I'm in the room it isn't!"

"But what's so wrong about it? They don't make a big deal of it when _we_ end up sleeping together, do they?" Romano immediately opened his mouth in protest but Spain didn't pause to let him speak. "If you really can't sleep in the same room with them then the fair thing to do would be for _you_ to go sleep on the couch, wouldn't it?"

A look came over Romano's face like Spain had just stabbed him.

"Oh my _God_! Are you seriously not understanding this?" Romano tried to pull his wrist away from Spain but he failed to break his grip and ended up uselessly flapping his arm instead. "If you're going to be dense then maybe I just don't want to be trying to sleep while they're right next to us making fucking googly-eyes at each other, _okay_?"

"Since when do I make googly-eyes?" asked Germany.

"You don't," Italy assured him. "I think Romano just can't think of a good reason why he doesn't want us sleeping together."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph—just _fuck_ everyone here! Nevermind!" Romano finally managed to jerk his arm away from Spain and he threw himself onto one of the beds in a tragic and defeated manner. "Why do I even bother when all you people ever do is fucking ignore me?"

"That's not true and you know it," said Spain, his voice becoming more gentle. He came to sit down next to him and put his hand on Romano's hair—Germany half-expected Romano to swat at him but he didn't. "I know Ita and me aren't always good at it, but we both really do want to listen to you, okay? We both care about you and we both want you to be happy. But that doesn't mean we don't get to disagree with you when we all think you're being unreasonable."

Romano sighed.

"Whatever."

"_Now_ who's not listening? I'm trying to make you feel better here!" Spain flicked his ear and this time Romano really did smack him. "Roma, I really don't think Germany and Italy sleeping together just for tonight is going to be the end of the world. They're just going to be in the same bed so unless this is because of something else you're not telling us about you don't have to worry. You might not have much faith in them but I'm sure they can manage to keep their hands to themselves and let you sleep."

Romano fisted the bed sheets as if in agony—under normal circumstances Germany probably would have felt embarrassed over this, but just for today his desires for vengeance outweighed any sense of shame he may have had. Italy, however, covered his mouth with his hands and laughed shyly.

"What? Do you think they wouldn't be able to?"

"Do _you_ think making me a picture about that shit is helping?" Romano sat up and pushed Spain's hand away like he'd decided that letting him touch him any longer was going to border on pornographic. "I don't know why the fuck you seem to think you can trust them not to be have their nightly little giggle party like they always do—"

"Don't worry about that Romano, I don't think Germany can giggle in the first place," Italy told him, bouncing onto the bed. He hugged Romano around the shoulders, clearly having forgotten they'd been on the verge of fighting just a minute ago. "I promise we'll be good, okay? We wouldn't do anything with you in the room—"

"_Ughhhh_, shut up, shut _up_!"

"If we wear ourselves out at the beach I bet we're all going to end up falling straight to sleep tonight anyway, Roma." Spain grinned. "So there's nothing to worry about and everyone's happy. Right? Can you deal with them together as long as they're good?"

"That means you're making me, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not _making_ you but—Roma, c'mon, what're you still being so negative for? I don't have to cheer you up do I?"

"If you do one of your stupid fucking cheer-up charms on me I'm going to kill you," Romano warned, knocking Italy off of him. "Can you assholes just put your shit away already so we can get food? I'm fucking hungry."

* * *

><p><strong>Culture Notes<strong>

*You've probably heard of German autobahns. They're famous for not having speed limits (except in certain cases, like with buses and cars with trailers), but there is a recommended speed limit of 130 km/h (81mph). By the way, fatalities on the autobahn aren't any higher than in other European countries.


	10. Chapter 10

Saturday's lunch was miraculously uneventful—both Italy and Romano were about as well behaved as one could ask for, and aside from Spain agonizing in the beginning over what to order for Germany, their mealtime was quite mellow when compared to yesterday. As an added bonus, once everyone had some food in their stomachs and the post-meal sleepiness kicked in, Germany was kept entertained on the walk back to the hotel as he watched everyone around him begin to run out of steam.

"Fifteen minutes late for a nap and you're all dead on your feet," he said, as Spain battled pitifully with the lock to their room. "We haven't even done much of anything today yet."

"We're just sleepy because this is when we always go to sleep." Italy yawned with his hand over his mouth. "Are you coming, Germany?"

"No, I think I learned my lesson about taking naps already. I might as well stay up and avoid pissing off your brother."

Romano looked back for a moment as though about to comment, then waved his hand lazily at them and went into the bedroom.

"Aw, okay," said Italy. He gave Germany's hand an affectionate squeeze. "We'll be back up in about an hour, then."

"That's fine. Have a good nap."

With time now to himself, Germany didn't have to think twice about what he'd like to do with it. He went to fetch his laptop as the others left and settled down on the couch, convinced that this time around he was sure to find his inbox flooded with news of disaster and mayhem back home—but was disappointed yet again. There were only a few notifications waiting for him, all of which he could take his time responding to, but he still considered doing so right away, just to have one less thing to do once he'd gotten home. However, once he'd started thinking of his reply to the first message, for some reason an image of Italy's pouty, disappointed face floated into his mind, scolding him for trying to get work done as soon as he had his back turned.

So now he had two options: he could either give in to his compulsion and probably break Italy's heart clean in two, or he could make an honest attempt to enjoy his break and return to his responsibilities on Monday with restored energy. Yes, when he put it to himself that way the answer seemed obvious.

Germany put his laptop down on the coffee table, leaned back against the arm of the couch and forced himself to rest his eyes. He tried his best to appreciate the silence and tranquility or whatever it was that he was supposed to be soaking in, and somehow he thought it might be working, or at least he felt some tension leave his shoulders that he hadn't known was there. Germany's moment of peace, however, only lasted for about thirty seconds longer before the bedroom door creaked open and he sat back up with an awkward cough.

"Oh—sorry, were you sleeping?"

Germany hadn't expected to see Spain again so soon. He stared at him blankly for a moment and shook his head.

"No, I just had my eyes closed for a second. _You_ were trying to go to sleep, I thought."

"I know, but I wasn't actually falling asleep so I thought I might as well get up for a minute." Spain gestured to the couch and offered Germany a wobbly smile. "Can I sit?"

"There's plenty of room."

Spain flopped down at the other end of the couch and sprawled out, assuming a languid position. Germany was relieved to know that Spain at least had the decency to keep a shirt and boxers on when he slept, unlike some people he could mention.

"This is kind of unusual, isn't it?" As he spoke, Germany realized that he hadn't actually spoken to Spain at all this weekend without someone acting as a buffer between them. Spain was easy to get along with, but he had to admit he didn't know him as well as he did Italy. "You were acting so tired I assumed you'd be out as soon as you closed your eyes."

"I don't fall asleep _quite_ that easy." Spain laughed as he draped his arm over his eyes. "That's more like Romano and Ita. You know, I don't think Roma noticed I left even after I had to climb over him to get out of bed."

"That sounds about right." Germany had never seen anyone quite so dead to the world as a sleeping Italy. Prussia after a night of hard drinking was a close second, but he could at least be woken up if you startled him enough. "Is there a reason why you can't sleep? I know how seriously you people take your siesta time."

"Well—probably." Spain wiggled around a little more to achieve maximum comfort. "This isn't very normal for me."

"This isn't about lunch, is it? About what you suggested I get?" Germany may have been grasping at straws here, but he did recall the very first time Italy offered to cook for him, and things had turned out similarly. Just like Spain earlier he was almost panicking when it actually came time to decide what to have him try and what he was most proficient in making, then remaining dissatisfied even after Germany had tried his food and said it was very good. "Spain, I realize you've been trying to give me a tour of Spanish cuisine since I've been here but I swear I've liked everything you've had me try so there's no reason to worry."

Spain blinked at him tiredly.

"It's good you liked your food and all but—I don't think that's it." As Spain laughed again it now occurred to Germany that maybe he was making a few too many assumptions about Spain based on his experiences with Italy—a normal person wouldn't get _that_ emotional over food, would they? "Ah, I guess I was just in there with Romano already asleep next to me and somehow I ended up getting a little sad. Thinking this would all be easy and then realizing how Roma felt wasn't a good feeling."

Germany was confused.

"What part of all this seemed like it was going to be easy, exactly?"

"Well, not easy, but I also didn't think it'd be hard." Spain shrugged like even he knew he was being ridiculous. "It's always so much fun to get us all together that I hoped maybe if you came along too Romano could look past your differences and still have fun, you know? But then everything ended up all complicated and I understood a lot less than I thought I did."

"It's been a lot better today," Germany assured him, thinking that the truth might be the kindest thing to say. "Romano might have thrown a fit about the beds earlier but he did seem happier in the car and at lunch, I thought. He was almost even polite with me while we were eating."

"Was he? I didn't even notice."

"I'd call it an improvement that he willingly passed me a plate, at least," said Germany. "I know you'd be more upset that me if Romano doesn't come around by the end of all this, but keep in mind that you don't need to beat yourself up just because it hasn't all worked out perfectly, alright? I already tried that yesterday and let me tell you, it really doesn't solve much."

"Yeah. Hearing that does make me feel better." Spain rubbed at his face but smiled. "Argh, why do you have to make me lose sleep over you, Roma? I like that there's never a dull moment with him but I'd really rather not have it interfering with my naps."

"Romano's lucky," Germany told him. "If it was me instead of you in this relationship I would have kicked his ass a long time ago." Spain pulled a face like he'd just been given a hilarious mental image. "There's times when I wonder why I put up with half the things Italy does but you honestly must have it a hundred times worse."

"Roma's not that bad," said Spain, now looking especially exhausted. "Trust me, you just only see worst side of him. Normally he's very…"

"Are you about to say difficult to describe or difficult in general?"

"No, no." Spain waved his hand at him and laughed again. "I think he'd rather just be stubborn than people a chance sometimes, really. Ita can warm up to people right away but Romano's exactly the opposite. But then once he does, and he lets you see how cute he is on the inside… that's the Roma I like so much."

"It sounds like you're telling me he's a pain in the ass."

"Trust me, I know." Spain said this without missing a beat. "You know, France used to tell me I was crazy for thinking this, but I really think when you're in love with somebody it makes all of your emotions about that person like—more intense. So no one can get me as frustrated as Romano, but no one else can make me as happy, either. D'you know what I mean? I wanna be with him 'cause he's complicated and a pain in the butt and perfect all at the same time. I still can't really wrap my head around it but I'm starting to think that's what love kinda is."

Germany was surprised to hear him say this. Deep down, maybe he'd been feeling a little sorry for Spain all along, thinking that Romano couldn't possibly be worth all the trouble. _He _certainly wouldn't be able to handle it—even for all of Italy's eccentricities, he could at least count on him to brighten his day whenever they saw one another. Hearing Spain talk like that, however, made him think maybe there wasn't just one form of this ridiculous feeling the world called love, or perhaps there really was more to Romano than there appeared to be at first glance.

"Does Romano know you feel that way?"

"I tried saying something like that before but I d'know whether he believes it. Romano's not very confident, I don't think. And he hides his feelings a lot." Spain became lost in thought for a moment. "See, but then it ends up feeling special when he says he loves you, 'cause for Romano, admitting it says he means it with all his heart. See what I mean?"

"When I was younger Prussia warned me that love was basically just a voluntary form of insanity," Germany said. Spain was wearing an expression that was a mixture of love-struck and dazed from lack of sleep, and it all seemed so stupid that Germany started to smile. "Wisest thing he's ever said to me, I'm beginning to think."

"Hey, I know what you feel about Ita," Spain accused him, yawning at the same time. "Don't look at me like I'm the only one."

"I know," Germany sighed. It was often said that Italians were the best lovers, but sometimes he believed this to be somewhat of an understatement. He wondered if there was any hope at all for the people who fell inexplicably in love with them. "We're very sick people."

Spain laughed as he began a very cat-like stretch. He moved a throw pillow just like he wanted it, flopped onto his side and nestled down into the sofa cushions.

"Thank you, Germany, I 'ppreciate you cheering me up," he said, sounding asleep already. "Too comfortable to get up, though. Imma sleep right here."

"That must have been the shortest bout of depression I think I've ever seen." Germany shifted over some more and felt himself squashing his phone in his back pocket, reminding him of something. "I was going to call Prussia before I forgot. Should I do it out in the hall, then?"

"Prolly no reception in here anyways. Take the key and come back when it's four, alright? G'night."

And just like that, Spain was out. Germany sighed to himself—maybe he wasn't so unlike Italy after all.

* * *

><p>Germany stood ankle-deep in water, stripped down to just a tank top and a pair of shorts. A beautiful seascape stretched out before him, a stunning vista that he wished didn't feel so challenging to appreciate. Though Spain had wisely decided to avoid the city beaches and bring them instead to a very undeveloped one, even quiet, scenic beaches had never been very friendly to Germany, nor he to them.<p>

It was mostly the sand, he decided. It was the very nature of sand to end up everywhere, in his hair and his eyes and other unmentionable places, and he just knew he'd still be finding it in his clothes a month from now, even a million washes later. And when it wasn't the sand every beach he'd ever been to had plenty of other annoyances, like the crowds and the litter and the heatstroke and even the water itself, which had disgusting, slimy things in it and probably man-eating sharks. Worst of all, Germany knew that once he got himself wet the sand would just stick to him even more and sometimes it amazed him that something as awful as a beach could simultaneously be so appealing to so many people.

"Get in already, Germany!" Italy yelled, bobbing up and down with the waves and laughing. "Standing there's no fun!"

"I don't need to be having fun to enjoy myself," Germany replied. Sometimes he considered this phrase to be his motto in life, though few people seemed to understand the sentiment. "If I get in right away I'll just have to deal with a soggy shirt for that much longer."

"Then take your shirt off!"

"I'm _trying_ not to get a sunburn, do you mind?"

Italy came swimming back to shore and jogged up to him with an exasperated smile on his face.

"You already put sunscreen on, didn't you?" He took Germany's hands and dripped all over. "I know you like to be careful but it's so dreary today and everything—there's no way you'd really get burnt, would you?"

"I don't think you've ever had a sunburn in your entire life," Germany said, bitterly. "You people tan and I just get burnt to a crisp. Every time."

"But you've still got to get in the water at some point, right? That's the whole point of the beach! " Italy reached for the bottom of Germany's shirt and started to pull up. "If you're so worried about being soggy then just take this off, I'm sure you'll be fine—"

"_No_." Germany seized his wrist and used the dreaded face of sternness on him; Italy squeaked. "Do you remember the last time we were at the beach and how my back peeled for a week afterward? Do you remember me telling you it hurt like holy hell?"

"Yes?"

"Well I'm not taking a chance on having a repeat of that, sun or no sun. So leave it alone and _don't_ make me say it again."

Italy gave him a hopeless look, like he'd just been informed he wasn't getting any presents for Christmas ever again.

"But… you're not saying you're just gonna stand here and be our lifeguard, are you?"

"No, but I don't have to come swim with you right this instant, do I?"

Italy's shoulders slumped with misery and Germany felt himself begin to falter. He found himself longing for the good old days, back when he had no problem being strict and unyielding no matter the circumstances—no matter if the person he was yelling at was wearing the saddest face in the world, no matter if that person could make his insides feel like pudding. But that wasn't the way it was anymore, and hadn't been in a long time, and now he'd finally begun to suspect that Spain wasn't the only one who'd completely lost it.

Being in love was a lot like the beach, it turned out: horrifying and humiliating, often leading to unpleasant truths surrounding the state of his unmentionables, but still not without its charms.

"Stop making me feel guilty," Germany snapped. "I'll get in with you, alright?"

"Yay! Thank you, Germany!" Italy's face lit right back up again as he yanked him by the forearm into the surf. "Let's go play with everybody, c'mon!"

Spain and Romano, no surprise, had both turned out to be the type who came to the beach not to swim but to engage in what would normally be called dangerous horseplay. They were much further down the shoreline now, leaping and diving and yelling and getting knocked over by waves and trying to drown each other, though Romano's shrieks of laughter probably meant they were having a very good time of it. Still, Germany wasn't all too pleased at the thought of getting involved with whatever incomprehensible game they were playing.

"Or you and I could just do some swimming by ourselves," Germany proposed.

"Okay, we can do that too!" Once he'd gotten into chest-high water Italy began to paddle in enthusiastic little circles around Germany. "Don't you love how salt water makes you float so good? And how the waves make you go up and down? It's so much more fun swimming at the beach than at the pool, I think."

"At least it doesn't smell like chlorine," admitted Germany. "And with a beach like this there aren't a whole lot of people, either, so that's nice."

"Spain's city beaches are packed all summer long just like mine," Italy sighed. "Even if the weather's crummy like today, too! The tourists might stay away but the locals come instead."

"So this is the beach you all go to when you want to be by yourselves?"

"Sometimes! It depends on where we're visiting, though." Italy paused and looked Germany over like there was something terribly wrong with him. "Germany, c'mon, your hair isn't even wet yet! You call that swimming?"

"I can't exactly swim if I'm trying to have a conversation with you, what do you want from me?"

"I want you to stop being so difficult!" Italy grinned at him and swam right up in his face. "You're no fun to have fun with, I hope you know. And you're giant stick in the mud, _and_ the biggest spoil-sport in the _whole world_."

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," said Germany, half-smiling. "I'm sorry, but aren't _you_ the one being difficult here? I've been going along with everything you've wanted me to do since yesterday."

"But you've been complaining about it the entire time!"

"I could be complaining a lot more than I have been. I could be complaining as much as Romano if I really wanted to."

Italy's smile turned mischievous as he prodded him in the chest.

"First of all Germany, no one can complain as much as Romano. He's the world champion of complaining. And second of all you're in Spain's home, not yours, so right now _I'm_ the one who knows better." Italy continued poking him, playfully. "How's it feel to have the tables turned, huh?"

Germany gave him a resigned look just before pinching his nose and quickly dunking himself under. He came back up for air again and shook the water out of his hair like a dog.

"There. Happy now? I am now thoroughly soaked, thanks to you."

"Much better." Italy brushed Germany's bangs to make them lay flat on his forehead and drew back to admire his handiwork. "Y'know, I think I like your hair better when it's down, Germany. It makes you look very handsome."

"That's nice. I'm sorry I prefer looking so unattractive to you most of the time, then."

"Agghh—you're boring _and_ you take everything the wrong way!" Italy groaned but smiled at him nonetheless. "You're really hopeless, Germany. Absolutely hopeless. You're just _waaay _too German."

"I'm going to choose to take that as a compliment, so thank you."

"You always get so sassy when you're in a good mood but don't want to admit it," Italy griped. "Germany, I bet you couldn't just have fun even if you tried. Maybe I've never had a sunburn but I bet you've never actually had fun in your whole life."

"Of course I have." Germany put his arms around Italy's waist on an impulse and he lifted him up, almost clear out of the water. Italy gasped and clung to his shoulders, trying not to fall. "I have lots of fun when I'm around you, mostly."

"Oh." Italy blinked at him and relaxed again, his grin reappearing. "Really?"

"You're always entertaining. Even if it's not in a good way," Germany smiled up at him to let him know he wasn't entirely serious. Italy bumped his forehead against his. "You make me very happy."

"You make me happy too, Germany."

"Do I? I thought I was boring."

"Not—all the time." Italy looked at him coyly. "There's time's when you're exciting, too."

"Is that so?"

Italy's expression went completely soft and he began to slowly lean in with his mouth, eyes closed—so Germany did the most gentlemanly thing he could, given the circumstances, and dumped him back into the water.

Italy's new expression was a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief when he came up gasping for breath a moment later.

"Wha—Germany, why'd you—?"

"I draw the line at you calling me boring." Germany kicked backwards away from him, struggling to keep a straight face. "That's definitely not true."

"You big _jerk_!" Italy yelled. He chased after him, though he was laughing too hard to actually appear mad. "I thought we were gonna kiss! Did you _plan_ that?"

"Not really, it just seemed like a funny idea. I should've thrown you and made a big splash, that would've been even better."

Italy finally caught up and hurled himself at Germany with an enormous grin on his face, managing to force them both underwater. Germany didn't particularly care to have salt water in his eyes and kept them shut tight, but he was still very much aware of Italy tumbling over him and pressing their lips together, stealing a kiss as his revenge.

"I swear you both are the most nauseating fucking people on earth," Romano announced, just as they resurfaced. Spain treaded water with one arm so he could lovingly smack him in the shoulder. "Do either of you want to race? Spain's got this stupid idea—"

"A stupid idea _you_ already agreed to," Spain reminded him, pleasantly. "I got tired of coughing water out of my lungs so I thought you guys might want to come race us to see who's the best swimmer. I thought it'd be fun!"

"That does sound like fun!" said Italy, pushing the hair out of his eyes. "What do you think, Germany?"

"I'm not against it but where would we be racing to?"

"Well, there's not really anything like a big rock we could use as a goal point, so I thought—maybe we'd all just go a little further out and see who could get to land the fastest?"

"And that's why I said it was stupid. The waves would just push us all toward the beach anyway."

"But if you swim fast you'll still get there first, right? So it doesn't matter." Spain tapped a finger on Romano's nose to prove his superior logic and earned himself a sour look. "Anyway, if there's no objections I think we should definitely agree on what the winner gets before we start. Any ideas?"

"I thought this was supposed to be just for fun."

"It's _more_ fun if you raise the stakes!" Italy threw his arms up into the air. "I say the winner gets to make the loser do something! Something they definitely wouldn't want to do!"

Spain and Romano both agreed to the idea, though Germany wasn't quite as enthusiastic—maybe if _Italy_ won it wouldn't be so bad, but he couldn't even imagine the trauma the loser might endure if Romano came in first place.

"I'll participate just as long as no one ends up having to do anything too crazy," Germany sighed, giving in.

"What, afraid you might lose?" Romano jerked his head at Germany with a competitive sort of twinkle in eye that both he and Italy generally reserved for matters relating to football. "Try putting your stupid muscles to work for once."

* * *

><p><strong>Culture Notes<strong>

City beaches along the Mediterranean can be really, really packed during the summer if the weather's good—to the point that there might be hardly any room to set out a blanket for yourself. The weekends are especially bad, so if you're smart you might want to consider going on a weekday when the weather's bad or go for a beach that's more out of the way. By the way, I really did base the setting for this part of the story on an actual beach on the outskirts of Valencia, though the details aren't the same. I assume the nations don't want to attract human attention while out in public, so a mostly empty beach seemed like the most appropriate place for them.


	11. Chapter 11

It was already much too late by the time it occurred to Germany that he might actually be at a disadvantage.

Which was completely unfair, of course, because Germany was the one who loved to exercise and never saw it as a chore. He enjoyed doing things like going out on a jog or letting his dogs run him all over the place at the park, just anything that worked up a sweat and didn't require any thought. Today however, in this one particular case, it seemed that Germany's usual exercise habits were biting him in the ass—Romano and Spain were both relatively lean and clearly much better built for swimming, and even though Italy had always been a bit soft around the edges he wasn't even anywhere in sight anymore and that couldn't possibly be a good sign.

The hard truth was that Germany couldn't even remember the last time he'd gone swimming, and he knew he not only had the wrong body type for this but he was just too wildly out of practice to win any races today. Germany would need to accept that he couldn't just treat this as a casual swim anymore if he didn't want to end up dead last, because at this rate, there was a very good chance of that happening.

So Germany focused his energy, and he resolved that he would start swimming like he really meant it. He kicked much harder and drew his arms through the water as fast as he was able to, and pretty soon he wished he'd actually listened all those centuries ago when he was first learning to swim and Prussia told him his form was terrible. Still, even though he was probably flapping like an idiot and breathing completely wrong, he definitely wasn't about to let himself fall behind and be at winner's mercy with whatever ridiculous punishment they came up with.

Finally he managed to overtake Spain, and Romano wasn't much further ahead—but the beach was now even closer; he would need to pull off a huge burst of extra speed just to have a chance of catching up in time. He immediately began to channel his hatred for losing and his anger at Romano and his frustrations with himself for almost wanting to give up into the energy that would keep driving him forward, and this was all the extra incentive he needed to make it to shore.

But it wasn't enough for a miracle, unfortunately. By the time Germany hit water shallow enough that he could get back on his feet, Romano had already taken an ungraceful tumble onto wet sand, landing flat on his back.

"_YES!_" He raised his fists triumphantly into the air, chest heaving but looking inordinately pleased with himself. "I BEAT YOU FUCKERS! SUCK MY _DICK_!"

"_Jesus_, Roma," said Spain, completely winded as he stumbled up from behind. "Since when—did you get so fast?"

"I'm _always_ fast!" Romano even managed to drip victoriously as he wobbled back to his feet and jabbed his index finger toward them. "Admit it, I kicked _both_ your asses!"

"Wait, but—" Germany scanned the shoreline for a moment as he tried to comprehend what just happened. He could accept second place, but _Romano_ had come in first? "Where did Italy go?"

Then he turned around just in time to see Italy come splashing up onto the beach, completely breathless but smiling. Germany wondered just how much salt water he must have swallowed to have never realized the possibility of Italy being well behind him that entire time.

"Who won, who won?" he called out, running up to them. "I didn't see! Germany, did you win?"

Romano had only about half a second to act offended by his assumption because a moment later Italy had caught Germany off-guard by overzealously throwing himself right into him. Germany could not react in time to being so suddenly assaulted and the sheer force of impact managed to knock him off balance and send them both straight to the ground.

Predictably, Spain was the only one to rush over and kindly offer his hand to them, even if he did look like he was desperately trying not to crack up. Romano, meanwhile, made no such effort to hide his amusement and howled with laughter instead.

"I'm sorry!" Italy gasped, rolling away—Germany took a moment to assess whether or not he'd broken anything important and sat up again slowly, shaking the sand from his hair. "I'm sorry!" Italy cried again, holding his hands over his mouth. "I'm so sorry, I didn't think you'd fall! I thought you catch me like in a movie!"

"Does this _look_ like a movie to you?" Germany waved away Spain's hand and began to massage the back of his head. "You might not think you weigh that much but when you come at me like a freight train—"

"I'm sorry, Germany, I mean it! Are you mad?"

"No, I'm not mad, just probably bruised—"

"He also didn't win," Romano interrupted, with a malevolent smile on his face. "I did, for your information. And _you_ lost."

"What? _Really?_" Italy looked between both Germany and Spain as though surely that couldn't be right. "Romano won?"

"Roma beat Germany and me by about a mile," said Spain, nodding shamefully. "He must've really wanted to win today."

"You bet your ass I did." Romano crossed his arms and looked down at Italy smugly—he truly seemed to be enjoying this. "And _now_ I get to think of your punishment."

"_Romano_!" Italy moaned. "Ugh, you're gonna come up with something really evil too, I just know it. I only lost 'cause I got tired and I doggy paddled for a while, you know, so you don't have to be so mean! Shouldn't you be nice to me anyways since I'm your brother?"

"Little brothers don't get breaks. Plus, if you'd tried a little harder then maybe you wouldn't have lost!"

"But I thought Germany or Spain were gonna win and they'd go easy on me!"

"No I wouldn't have."

"_Wha—?_ Germany!"

"Sorry Ita, I wouldn't have gone easy on you either."

"Spain! You too?"

"But lucky for you I can't think of anything good right now," Romano said, turning around on his heel. Germany thought he could detect a little bit of sympathy in his voice that hadn't been there before, though what he said next didn't sound sympathetic at all. "But believe me, you better fuckin' watch out, because as soon as you forget you promised me, just when you least expect it—"

"_Romanooo!_"

* * *

><p>The beach had been almost completely vacated by the time dusk settled, leaving just Germany and Italy to be alone with the majesty of nature—even Romano and Spain had mysteriously disappeared some time back, and Germany was starting to run out of ideas for where they might have gone. Even a bathroom break or inappropriate canoodling couldn't possibly be taking this long, he thought, so now he was honestly hoping they'd just gotten attacked by seagulls or something and hadn't actually piled into the car and left without them.<p>

"You've got a big glob of sunscreen in your ear," Italy informed him. Germany looked up from wringing out his shirt for what was hopefully the last time and found that Italy must have come trotting out of the water while he wasn't looking. "Did you put some back on just now? It looks pretty funny."

"The directions say you're supposed to reapply it occasionally or the water eventually washes it away." He gave Italy's new tan a somewhat resentful look and put his shirt back on. "I noticed that _you_ never even bothered putting any on at all."

"There's no point if I'm not gonna get burnt, right?"

"I hate you so much right now," Germany said, crabbily. "You have no idea how lucky you are and yet here I am, with my shoulders itching already—turns out the tank top idea was pointless, I should have just worn a coat or something—"

"You do look a little pink in certain places." Italy's eyes flickered over him and his voice became a little quieter. "Does it hurt?"

"Not yet, but tomorrow it will." Germany leaned back on the beach blanket and sighed, rubbing at his ear. "But by all means, go ahead and keep rubbing salt in my wounds, don't let me stop you."

"Aw, c'mon, it's not like I _wanted_ you to end up all burnt!" Italy knelt down and happily wiped the remaining sunscreen away from Germany's ear before he could stop him—he'd always been doing things like that, in exactly the same manner, even before they were something official and Germany had only found it embarrassing. He _still_ found it embarrassing, actually, but at least now it seemed to have taken on an air of domesticity. "Can I sit with you? I think I've had enough swimming."

"And that only took what, four hours?"

"I _like_ swimming," said Italy, with a stubborn grin. He deliberately plopped himself down right at Germany's hip. "It just wears you out eventually is all. So I thought I'd come sit with you for a while and watch the sun go down!"

"If the sun was actually setting over the water there might be something to see, but—"

"Just listen to you, Germany!" Italy said, his grin turning exasperated. "Now _you're_ the one wishing things were more like a movie! Even being at the beach with me isn't romantic enough for you now, huh?"

"There is _nothing_ romantic about the beach. In fact I can't think of anything less romantic than sand down your pants and that is just about the only thing I've gotten out of this experience."

Italy managed to control himself for only a moment before cracking up, and just hearing him laugh so helplessly made Germany lose his desire to feel bitter about the whole ordeal—sand and sunburn aside, he _did_ have an enjoyable time together with Italy today, and possibly he'd even caught himself having fun a time or two.

He stared back out at the water, now turned a dull, decidedly non-romantic shade of grey, and as Italy finally calmed back down he snuggled in happily at Germany's side.

"Germany?"

"What?"

"I think today went really good, don't you? I had fun being here and everything turned out!"

"It was alright," Germany said. Even that much was difficult to admit to. "Even if everyone's a lot happier today I don't think I'm any closer to making friends with Romano, though. He and Spain were off doing their own thing almost the entire time."

"Hm. Well—I know that's important and all but I still wouldn't worry about it _too_ much. And I know how hard it is—there was a time when I had to make friends with Romano too, remember?" Italy seemed to reminisce for a moment. "After Grandpa died we ended up separated, you know, so a lot of history passed before we were unified again. And during that time we both had different experiences, and we grew up to be very different people—so learning to be family again wasn't exactly easy."

"I don't think reminding me of that story is going to cheer me up, somehow."

"I'm just trying to tell you I sympathize!" Italy's sunny smile returned as he gave Germany an encouraging pat. "Just don't feel like you failed if nothing happens by tomorrow, okay? Spain's just being impatient."

Germany side-eyed him.

"He's in a _relationship_ with _Romano_," he said. "That makes him practically the patron saint of patience, doesn't it?"

"Don't act like you know what a patron saint is," scolded Italy. "And Spain's not very patient at all, actually, because when stuff actually gets to him he can get worked up pretty easy. _Especially_ when Romano's involved. But anyway, I think Spain needs to understand that just taking baby steps is enough. We've still got pretty much the rest of forever to make Romano like you."

"I know. I just wish he'd act a little grateful after I've been trying so hard to act nice."

"And you _have _been nice!" Italy agreed. "Yesterday you were even being nice when nobody else was getting it. It's just—see, Romano won't always appreciate that stuff no matter how hard you try. He's really stubborn like that. Hmm—actually, he's kind of like you in that way, now that I think about it. Don't you think so?"

Germany did not immediately react. At first he didn't even know _how_ to react—he felt like his brain had short-circuited, sending all of his normal thought processes flying in completely insane, self-loathing directions. He was like _Romano?_ It took him a few seconds to recover to a point where he decided he would try to make sense of Italy's statement before the sudden, violent urge to go drown himself took better hold.

"I'm sorry," Germany said, robotically. "_How_ am I like Romano, exactly?"

"I just mean that both of you take a long time to start liking people. Stuff like that." Italy stretched his bare feet out in front of him and wiggled his sandy toes, clearly unaware of the soul-crushing consequences of comparing a person to Romano. "I don't really know why but you both come off as real grumpy at first even when people try being nice. It's like neither of you really give people a chance. But then once you're done being stubborn about it you start being nice back, and everyone finally gets to see your good qualities. It just takes a while, that's all."

Germany wanted to say that wasn't true, of course—well, okay, _maybe_ it was undeniable that in Italy's case they'd gotten off to a rough start, but that wasn't _always_ how it went, was it? Was he really that unfriendly to _everyone_?

Well. Maybe he wasn't quite on Romano's level, but Germany still had to admit that while so many things came naturally to him, dealing with others did not. He'd never had much tolerance for sociability and other such nonsense, perhaps never would, and though he could probably count on one hand all the people he cared deeply about and felt he could trust, this was something he'd just never been ashamed of. He simply wasn't the kind of person who enjoyed always been surrounded by others, because sometimes he felt perfectly comfortable being alone. He couldn't even imagine being someone like Italy who could reach out to a stranger and have a new friend in less time than it took most people to introduce themselves.

"So let me get this straight," said Germany, dryly. "What you're saying is that not only am I boring, but I'm also stubborn and grumpy. Anything else you think I should know?"

"Wait, hold on!" Italy's eyes widened and he gesticulated all over the place, finally seeming to realize the full implications of what he was saying. "Don't take anything the wrong way, Germany! I didn't mean any of those things are bad qualities to have! Well, maybe they kinda are, but none of them are a big of a deal to me—"

"Now you're just making it worse. Please stop trying to convince me, I beg you."

"I think you're perfectly fine just the way you are!" Italy insisted, still trying to convince him anyway. "Everyone's bad at something, right? _I'm_ bad at lots of things! It's like—you know in stories, there's this thing—the thing where there's a good guy, but there's something bad about him! And usually it gets him into trouble—"

Germany gave him a bewildered look.

"Do you mean like a character flaw?"

"Yeah, that's what it's called! You just have a character flaw! Or actually a couple character flaws, but I'm saying it doesn't matter!" Italy got up on his knees again so he could put his arms over Germany's shoulders—Germany flinched slightly; maybe his shoulders were a little worse off than he thought—and the expression he wore was now oddly serious. "And you'd be a lot less interesting if that wasn't how things were, so don't worry about it, okay? I'll always love you whether you're being a big grouch or otherwise because those are parts of you and you just wouldn't be Germany without them!"

This was all completely ridiculous, Germany thought. He was the sort of person who normally liked rules, after all, who loved rules, who found comfort in the mundane and predictable, who appreciated order and rationality. He was the sort of person who took decades to open up to some of his best friends, who simply had no business having such warm, tingly feelings, and yet, for all the thinking he'd done on the subject, for all the theorizing, he was still unable to explain how he could possibly like Italy so very much and yet tolerate nonsense so very little.

Perhaps this was the moment when it dawned on him. Slowly, almost lethargically, he realized that perhaps all along he had been mistaken. Perhaps like a lot of otherwise very intelligent people, he too had been living in a world based on his own assumptions. Perhaps he had always lived his life trying to rationalize even the most absurd, inexplicable things, and then Italy had come along and exploded everything he used to believe without question. If only he could have Italy right in front of him—with his tangled, briny hair and sopping wet swim shorts, with his handsome tan and the warmth in his eyes—and he could be happy and yet all shades of terrified, then perhaps he needed no further explanations. Despite all logic, despite all reason, despite all likelihood that Romano might come marching over the sand dunes at any moment and punch him square in the mouth, he considered that perhaps this feeling didn't need to be justified at all.

Germany began to feel lightheaded, so rather than contemplate the issue any longer he decided that collapsing backward onto the blanket might be the best option—and he did, taking Italy down with him.

"Ack! Germany! Don't fall asleep!"

"I'm not falling asleep." Germany gazed up beyond Italy's hair at the darkened sky, where the first twinkling of stars had just barely become visible. "I'm in a state of emotional turmoil."

"Oh." Italy pushed himself up a little, his expression puzzled but mostly concerned. "Well that doesn't sound good. How come?"

Germany let out a long, reluctant sigh.

"Italy," he deadpanned. "Do you have any idea how it feels to realize something you've done your whole life might be wrong?"

"Yes?"

Germany couldn't remember a time that he had ever felt so incapable of comprehending a one-word answer before. There was a first time for everything, he supposed.

"Did you really just say yes? Without even hesitating?"

"Well… I _think_ I know that feeling, at least!" Italy smiled hesitantly at Germany's baffled expression. "You're always acting all surprised or embarrassed by some of the stuff I do, you know? Like the way I like to sleep or how much I want to kiss you sometimes. And it's not that you hurt my feelings when it happens, but every once in a while it does make me wonder if I'm weird."

"Oh." Germany felt a sudden twinge of guilt. "But that's more—culture shock, I guess. It's not really the same."

"So that's not the feeling you're talking about?"

"No, not exactly—"

"Then I want to understand what you mean," Italy said, earnestly. His thumb brushed Germany's cheek. "Is it a little similar, at least? Because sometimes when you point that stuff out to me it really makes me think about whether I'm doing things right, you know? And sometimes I end up wondering if anybody really knows what the right way is at all. Is that the kind of feeling you're having, Germany? Do I make you wonder about stuff too?"

There was a moment of quiet, save for rhythmic crashing of waves, as Germany slowly reached out with his hands to cradle Italy's face. It was something he'd never done before—and later on that evening he wouldn't even know why possessed him to do it in the first place—so at first Italy was justifiably surprised. It took him a few seconds before his mouth curved back into a grin.

"What's this for?"

"I don't know. Don't ask me."

"You're acting really weird right now, you know that?" But Italy laughed, so he didn't seem particularly bothered by it. "Does this mean you're ready to admit the beach is pretty romantic after all?"

"No," Germany said, a very slight smile on his face. "Never in a million years."

He yanked Italy down by the nape of his neck and kissed him, because despite being utterly opposed to the mere _concept_ of warm fuzzies, he still knew that he loved Italy very much, and for reasons he was only just beginning to come to terms with. Maybe it often left him feeling a little confused, lost in a veritable ocean of his own ridiculous feelings, but he supposed there would eventually come a time when he'd either understand or more likely stop caring all together, because really, with Italy, there'd never been much to really understand in the first place.

Germany realized that Italy had been staring down at him since they'd broken back apart, eyes wide and curious and a little disbelieving. It was impossible to say whether he actually understood any of it but he still seemed perfectly delighted by this turn of events. He dove back down at him again and squeezed him tightly around the neck.

"_Aww!_ So he _does_ have a sweet side!"

"Easy on the shoulders," said Germany, with restored stiffness. "And no, Italy, you know perfectly well I have no such thing. The only side I have is bitter and hollow."

"Well I love you anyway," Italy leaned in and kissed him twice at the side of his mouth. "Even when you're being a huge pain in the butt."

Germany forced him off with an almighty shove—Italy had the nerve to look wounded for a moment, but then his wicked laughter instantly removed any and all feelings of remorse Germany might have had.

"I don't know why I even associate with you," he said, rubbing sand off his shins and flinging it in Italy's general direction. "There's never a time when you _aren't_ a pain in the butt, thank you very much. You make my life about a thousand times harder than it has to be."

"Sometimes I think you like that about me," Italy told him, beaming.

"Yes, well, sometimes I think I have frightening masochistic tendencies," Germany fired back, but he was unable to keep the no doubt stupid looking smile off his face. He was just about to do something equally stupid too, like pull Italy back over to him, but then his ears picked up on what sounded like voices coming from the direction of the sand dunes. Italy immediately got to his feet and looked out, shielding his eyes with his hand.

"You're back! I thought you guys might've been lost forever!"

"Only temporarily," laughed Spain. Romano rolled his eyes beside him. "Sorry we were gone so long, Roma had to go pee and then we got turned around in the woods—"

"What he means is, there was a _path_ and he _still_ got us lost."

"It was dark in there! It's not my fault you decided you couldn't go unless we were miles from civilization—"

"Take us to a beach with _toilets_ next time and maybe it wouldn't be a problem!"

"I'm getting hungry," Italy announced, completely ignoring them. Germany was starting to see the wisdom in this—their constant bickering seemed ever more superficial to him now that he was paying attention Spain's constant twinkle of affection in his eyes, or the way he seemed to hold Romano's attention so easily. Germany was also starting to think he must've been in serious denial about the nature of Spain's relationship with Romano until now because at this point it was incredibly difficult _not_ to notice. "Can we get ready to leave soon so we can go eat?"

"I'm with Italy," Germany volunteered, rising. Dinner was a much safer thing to be thinking about, in any case.

"Food does sound like a good idea. Have you had enough of the beach too, Roma?"

"I don't care, it's getting too dark to see anyway."

"So you're _admitting_ it was dark in the woods, are you?"

"No."

"You're impossible. But food it is, then!" Spain clapped his hands together. "Anything in particular you'd like to eat, Germany? I'll probably be making lunch tomorrow back at the house but it wouldn't be anything special, so this is your last chance—"

"I don't have any suggestions. It's fine if I eat whatever the rest of you want to have."

"Ooh, that reminds me!" Italy piped up. "I had a really good idea earlier! I was thinking about how there wasn't enough time to have Germany try all the food we wanted him to, so I thought—maybe instead of doing just a regular dinner we should do something like going out for tapas!"

"Italy, I think you might actually mean a really _bad_ idea," said Germany, sharply. He'd never actually participated in this tapeo phenomenon himself, but after seeing the aftermath of Prussia's experiences with them he thought he had a pretty good handle on the kind of devastation they caused. "You do realize Spain's going to need to get us back home sometime tomorrow, don't you?"

"But—" Italy's face fell. "I just thought you'd like to try it while you're with us. You don't think it'd be fun?"

"It _would_ be fun," said Spain, obviously warming to the idea. His enthusiasm only served to fill Germany with a sense of dread. "Think of the cultural education you'd be getting, Germany! Besides, tapas aren't about getting drunk, it's about eating and socializing, so it should be fine if we can just remember not to go overboard—"

"And what's the likelihood of that actually happening?" asked Romano, pointedly. It was perhaps the first time in recorded history that Germany had ever found himself thinking along exactly the same lines as he was.

"The sad state of my wallet will keep things from getting too out of hand, I think," Spain replied, shaking his head mournfully. "I won't be able to pay for everyone as it is—"

"I don't mind paying for myself, Spain! I wouldn't want you to go broke taking care of us." Italy looked over, merrily. "Germany, you're okay with paying for yourself too, right? Or do you still not like my idea?"

Normally Germany would know better than to expect responsibility out of a group of people well known for their irresponsible drinking habits. However, he also normally wouldn't be looking forward to the promise of cold beer after a hard two days of sobriety, so maybe that was the reason he was about to have a lapse in his normally good judgment.

"I'd be willing to try so long as this really isn't about getting drunk," he said, cautiously optimistic. "But someone else is going to need to order for me again."

"I'll handle it," Spain assured him. He gave Romano a wink and a nudge in the arm. "Roma could too, if he wanted."

"Let's not get crazy," said Romano.

* * *

><p><strong>Culture Notes<strong>

For the completely uninitiated, tapas are an immensely popular Spanish culinary invention, with tapas bars now popping up in countries all over the world. Tapas are essentially small portions of food served with alcohol (not a full meal), and tapeo (among other phrases) refers to the practice of going tapas bar hopping. The point is not to get drunk, but to enjoy the food and drink while socializing with friends (and your fellow bar patrons)! There will be much more on tapas in the coming chapter.


	12. Chapter 12

Despite the outrageous amount of trouble Prussia managed to cause him on a routine basis, Germany took no issue in admitting that he loved his brother. It helped, of course, that Prussia was the type of person who practically oozed unconditional affection, but he was also Germany's go-to source for the sort of invaluable wisdom that only came with having lived a long, long time. Sometimes this wisdom of his could be a little suspect—Germany recalled one particular occasion when Prussia dragged himself home and muttered only the words 'never trust frozen peas' before collapsing in the hallway—but every once in a while he had a way of saying something so unexpectedly observant or wise that it might keep a person wondering about it for weeks after the fact.

"Odd couple my ass," Germany muttered to himself.

One of Prussia's little throw-away comments, like so many before, had just now managed to come back to mind with terrible new relevance: _you and alcohol sure make an odd couple, West._ Prussia probably hadn't meant this as offensive, but it still bothered Germany to have someone tell him that while he didn't exactly have an alcohol _problem,_ his relationship with it was certainly bizarre and often contradictory. For heaven's sake, Germany could practically call himself a monolith of saintly virtue compared to _some_ people he could mention, but you could still put a foaming stein of beer in front of him and all that noble self-restraint usually went right out the window. Even the most reserved of individuals occasionally had their transgressions, he realized, but in his case it seemed that alcohol was less of a weakness and more of a guarantee that he would be having some strong feelings of regret in the morning.

The awful truth was this: for all of Germany's usual reservations and principled behaviors, there was still something irresistibly charming to him about cold, good tasting booze. Sometimes a beer in hand could be the finest companion he could ask for, whether socializing or feeling misanthropic, whether he was in for an evening of intensely boring paperwork or had just finished, and alright, yes, sometimes he just drank himself into a stupor and enjoyed himself. He couldn't possibly pretend to be responsible _all _the time.

Actually—maybe Prussia wasn't too far off the mark with his 'odd couple' comment after all, as much as he hated to admit it. Still, Germany was well aware he'd ended up with one of the biggest alcoholics in all of Europe for a brother, and his own drinking habits did not seem like much of a problem next to his, which was really less of a problem at all and more of an ongoing disaster.

"Okay, you're talking to yourself _and_ you keep giving me shifty looks," Italy said, giving Germany a shifty look of his own. At some point during their stroll into the heart of Valencia he'd made the decision of turning around and walking backwards down the sidewalk, and so far he'd probably bumped into half the city's population. "Did I do something bad?"

"It's not what you've done, it's what you're going to do." Germany reached out and jerked Italy to his side just as he was about to knock over a middle aged woman. "I know what you're like when you drink, you know. You can be a really obnoxious drunk."

"No I'm not!"

Now that was a shameless lie if Germany had ever heard one. Maybe it was true that Italy didn't drink even half as much as he did but his tolerance for alcohol was incredibly low, making him the sort of person who drank a few glasses of wine and rapidly progressed from abnormally friendly to wildly and embarrassingly uninhibited.

"That's bullshit, Veneziano. We've all seen you when you're drunk and you're almost as bad as someone _else_ I know."

"What, you're talking about me?"

"See? I don't even have to say his name and Spain knows it's him."

"Oh shut up," said Spain, eyes twinkling. Germany had never seen a more inappropriate time for such twinkling in his entire life. "Just because Roma doesn't know how to have fun—"

"You're the dumbass who always drinks 'til he gets sick. How is that fun?"

"It's _plenty_ fun until the throwing up part." It was becoming more and more clear that the tension between Romano and Spain had finally melted away—there was hardly a moment when they weren't talking to each other now, with Romano's endless complaining having taken on an almost zealous quality while Spain blissfully reflected his criticisms, beaming with adoration all the while. Somehow they seemed much happier with each other in a way that Germany couldn't possibly hope to explain. "Look Romano, I'm at a point in my drinking career that I doubt I can get drunk on only a couple glasses of wine an hour even if I wanted to. Besides, we've had lots of dinners like this in the past, right? Did I ever get drunk _then_?"

Romano almost seemed to smile about something, but he bit it back and hastily looked away at the last moment.

"How am I supposed to tell? You always act like you're drunk."

"Romano, stop it!" laughed Italy. "Let it rest already, would you? We're all grown-ups here and we can all take responsibility for ourselves."

"Look who's talking."

"You stop it too, Germany! Jeeze!"

"I guess it's just no use, Ita." Spain sighed for dramatic effect and laid his arm down heavily across Romano's shoulders. "And here I thought we might as well have a little fun together but as per usual Germany and Romano just want to rain on our parade—"

"Shut up, Spain!"

It took them all of three seconds to launch into yet another argument, but this one in particular was notable for managing to continue on for at least the next half block. Italy just kept shaking his head at them.

"It's obvious they're not actually mad at each other," he whispered, leaning in at Germany's side and pointing. "See? Spain's still all smiley and Romano's all—"

"I can tell, Italy, but I think I've decided to stop caring. It's better for my mental health if I just don't give them any thought."

"You just don't think they're as cute together as I do." Italy scrunched up his face in mock-disapproval. "Anyway, it's always made me happy in a weird way to hear them argue, you know? Since you can always tell they're getting along if they're bickering with each other like this."

"That's nice. What else do you Mediterranean types do backwards from normal?"

"Wha—? Hey!" Italy laughed with surprise at the sudden insult. "It makes sense though, doesn't it? Don't _you_ try to avoid starting arguments when you're in a bad mood? That's what I do."

"Please don't make me explain why arguing is still hardly the ideal." Germany paused and he donned a look of utmost seriousness that made Italy's expression grow wary. "Speaking of ideal—Italy, I'm not going to tell you how much to can or can't drink tonight, but can you at least promise me you'll try to control yourself so far as the flirting goes?"

"Don't worry, I can be responsible when I want to!" Italy wrapped one arm around Germany's and laughed. "You really don't like it when I flirt with people, do you? Though I guess I can understand, even if I like saying nice things to girls I need to pay attention to Germany's feelings, too—"

"That's not even what I'm talking about. I'm saying that as long as your brother's here don't try flirting with _me_."

"Oh. Well, then I'll try my best not to embarrass you or anything, Germany! You can count on me!"

"Thank you, I hope so," Germany sighed. "Italy—why is it that you flirt with everyone else when you're sober, but suddenly when you're drunk you try it on me? It's honestly the strangest thing to witness."

"Mm…" Italy hesitated for a moment, giving Germany the impression he'd prompted a rare moment of self-reflection. "I guess… because when I'm drunk that's when I'm the least shy, maybe? So if Germany's around I'll try flirting with him since that's when I'm most likely to want to get laid."

"Oh God."

"Or! Or I could also say that I've always thought it's easier to say nice things to people I don't know." Italy smiled up at him, a little rosy-cheeked for the wrong reasons. "I like to think that I can make a girl's day happier if I say something nice to them, but then when it's Germany and not a stranger I get all tongue-tied. I bet it's probably because you matter a lot more and you have so many good qualities I can think of I don't even know where to start! How's that for a romantic thing to say?"

"Just—" Germany rubbed his hand over his face and willed himself not to make a sound like he was dying. "Please, Italy, I don't need any _more_ reasons to drink."

Italy sighed to himself and shook his head.

"You know, you might say _Mediterranean_ people do stuff backwards, but you German people act really, _really_ repressed."

* * *

><p>He almost hated to admit it, but Germany's first ever adventure with the cultural phenomenon known as tapeo turned out to be surprisingly enjoyable. The very first bar they visited was small but packed with chattering locals, some even with children in tow—Germany instantly noted that he was yet again the lone blond in a sea of darker complexions, and he wondered if he and Italy might be the only non-Spanish speakers in the crowd.<p>

"It looks like there's no more room," Italy worried aloud.

"Don't worry, Ita, there'll be somewhere we can squeeze in up by the bar!" Spain made a beckoning gesture as he weaved himself through a seemingly impassable barrier of bar patrons, and Germany made sure to follow closely behind (he felt his heart react stupidly when Italy grabbed on to his pinkie finger to avoid being separated). He couldn't help but stare when they finally emerged on the other side of the crowd, where beyond the bar counter there was the kitchen itself and the food preparation being done in plain sight. There were only a small number of employees on duty, he noticed, each of them frantically rushing back and forth with plates and glasses, but somehow it seemed they were still managing to serve everyone without delay.

"Germany?"

"Sorry—yes?"

"We need to all think about what to order together." Spain smiled pleasantly as he stepped aside to let Romano in. "When you eat tapas you don't necessarily want to think of it as ordering for yourself, but for the group. That way everyone can have something they'd like to try but share everything too."

"Don't worry though, Germany," Italy added, as comfortingly as possible. "If you don't end up liking something no one's gonna feel bad. There's some pretty weird stuff you can eat at a tapas bar—"

"I'll try my best not to steer you wrong, Germany." Spain gestured upwards, bringing everyone's attention to a group of smeared black boards hanging over the wine selections. "Anyway, there's all our options—so you and Italy can ask us what stuff is and Romano and me can help you out."

"Spain," Romano said, eyes scanning the menu, "I've been here before, right? Isn't this the place with the good gazpacho?"

"Yup, that's what everyone knows this place for. I'm surprised you remember that, Roma—"

"What's gazpacho?" Germany asked.

"Oh! It's a vegetable soup." Spain needlessly started to gesticulate. "It's cold so it's great in summer—I was actually going to suggest you try some, Germany, I really like it."

"Well—again, this is very late for me to having dinner, so—"

"So just tell him you're too hungry for soup then, Germany!" Italy said. "Hey, how about I get some for myself and let you try it? If Romano says it's good then it must be really amazing."

"What? Are you being sarcastic?"

"No, it's the truth! If Mr. Picky-Eater likes it then it must be good!"

In the end, Germany left the decision of what to order mostly up to Spain—he struggled to choose for him yet again, which was of course all the more ridiculous knowing that everyone's food was going to be shared anyway. Eventually Spain decided it would be an inexcusable failure on his part if Germany never got to try any jamón serrano before he left, as it was a national treasure, but no explanation was offered for the reverent tone he used when he talked about it.

"Isn't it just ham?" Germany was almost disappointed once he'd gotten to see what it actually looked like—for all the build up it was fairly unimpressive looking, being just slices of ham on top of bread with cheese.

"It's _not_ just ham," Spain told him, sternly. "It is a _cornerstone of Spanish cuisine_."

"Basically don't talk shit about Spain's ham," advised Romano, taking some for himself. "You don't want to piss him off."

* * *

><p>The next several minutes seemed to pass in a blur—Germany had only just finished his beer and Spain was already asking for the bill.<p>

"Are we really going already?"

"Mmhm." Italy counted the coins in his hand and put them down on the counter. This time Romano seemed a little uncomfortable that he was paying for them both again, but Italy assured him it was fine and that he should go catch up with Spain. "Why, did you want to stay longer, Germany?"

"No, I'm saying it feels strange to order one time and leave."

"But that's what you'd do at a regular restaurant, right?" Italy laughed brightly. "I've only done this a few times in the past but you get to visit more places if you only get a couple things at each. So that's the reasoning behind it."

"Oh. Then how many bars was Spain planning to—"

Germany stopped mid-sentence as he watched Italy finish cleaning up his hands with a napkin, crumple it, then deliberately let it fall to the floor at his feet.

"What are you doing?"

"What?" He was puzzled for a moment, but Italy reacted quickly enough to grab at Germany's wrist just before he moved to pick it up. "Germany, you're _supposed_ to toss it on the floor! There's already napkins down there, see?"

It was true. Oh God, it was true. He hadn't noticed it before—who would have thought to look down?—but sure enough, there were already many more dirty napkins and discarded shells from seafood littering the floor. Of all the things Germany had been forced to accept as normal in this alien world of the Mediterranean, this was by far the most disturbing.

"Germany? You gonna be okay?"

"That is—unsanitary." Germany carefully lifted his foot and discovered he now had someone's discard napkin stuck to the bottom of his shoe. "Not to mention dangerous—what if someone slips?"

"People know to be careful, I guess." Italy spoke cautiously, as if worried that Germany might be on the edge of mental collapse. "It's okay, Germany, I know how you feel about dirty stuff. I won't make you throw your napkin on the floor if it bothers you, we can find a trash can for it."

Germany paused for a moment, and he compulsively swiped his own napkin off the bar counter. He thought about it, what it might mean to reject this Spanish custom, and whether this was worse or better than simply adding it to the mess around his feet. Germany looked up—he and Italy stared at one another for what felt like an eternity before he let his hand fall open and the napkin dropped.

"Uh." Spain had come back looking for them, dragging Romano by the hand. "We wanted to get out of here, didn't we? What are you two doing that's taking so long?"

"He did it, Spain!" Italy said, wheeling around breathlessly. "It was really intense but Germany did it! He dropped his napkin!"

"Really? Wow, I'm impressed, Germany! I didn't think you'd do something like that!"

"And yet somehow I don't exactly feel accomplished," said Germany. It hadn't been as hard as he thought it would be, though.

"That's because all you did was drop a stupid napkin," Romano said, crossly. "Can we just go already? I'm starving over here."

"Okay, okay, hold your horses, Romano. So—who wants to pick the next place?"

"You're letting one of us pick?"

"Well of course! It's more fun just to go eat at whatever place you feel like, don't you think?"

Now this was an idea Germany would never have agreed to, if it was entirely up to him—he didn't have nearly the capacity for such spontaneity. Still, he finished paying and told himself he would continue trying to be a good sport about things, even when Spain decided he would let Romano be the one to choose the next bar.

"Ooh—I don't think I've actually ever been in that one!" Spain looked approvingly at aged façade of a building just across the street, though Germany had a feeling Romano probably only pointed it out for the street performer playing just outside its doors. "Well, lets give it a try, shall we?"

The second bar's atmosphere turned out to be even less formal than the last, and this time the crowd wasn't as big, nor as intimidatingly homogenous—there were still plenty of Spaniards, but this time Germany could definitely make out snippets of conversation in other languages.

"Seems a little touristy," Romano muttered.

"That's alright, a few tourists around doesn't mean the end of the world." Spain checked around for a few seconds before finding the menu and bee-lining closer to it. "Besides, what if you run into some nice Italians?"

"That'd be really lucky, wouldn't it?" Italy seemed to brighten at the thought. "I haven't heard anyone speaking Italian in _days_… well, besides Romano saying a couple things, but he doesn't count."

"I think I hear German." Germany had no idea how he'd managed to pick up on it, except maybe his ears were aching to hear his native language again. "It's Low German, though—they might be Dutch."

"Really? What's Low German sound like, Germany?"

"It's pretty different from standard German, you'd probably have a hard time understanding it."

"I want to hear about it though, I bet it's interesting! You don't have to give me the short version just 'cause of Romano—"

"I wasn't going to say anything about it," Romano said, sounding surprised at the insinuation that he might ever be irritated by something German. "I only tell you to shut up with the German when you're using it to have your little secret conversations with each other."

"Romano," began Spain, patient and adoringly, "you do realize you do the exact same thing when you talk to me in Spanish, right?"

"Oh shut up."

Ordering for a second time wasn't much different from the first. Germany yet again had no idea what he was getting himself into when Spain asked what he'd most like to try, but he was starting to trust that Spain would most likely not disappoint him. Nothing he'd eaten during his stay had been particularly offensive to his palette thus far, even if not everything had been his favorite, but he wondered how long he could go until he ended up eating something that his stomach would not agree with him. He already felt like he must have consumed a liter of olive oil this weekend alone.

"Patatas bravas is potatoes, Germany," Italy was explaining to him. "Don't worry, Spain's still going easy on you."

"Oh. Is that what that is?"

"It's got a tomato sauce on it, that's the only other thing. It was kind of spicy when I last had it."

"No snide comments from Roma?" Spain looked over to him. "Nothing at all about Germany and potatoes?"

"No. He eats them so much it doesn't even faze me anymore."

"You've been showing a lot of maturity all of a sudden, Roma." The corners of Spain's mouth had turned upwards in a teasing grin, but his eyes suggested he was genuinely pleased. "If you got any cooler I think I might fall in love—"

"Can I ask a completely unrelated question?" interrupted Germany, deciding to interfere before Romano exploded on the spot. "Why is it that Romano knows Spanish so well? Italy's part-fluent in German, but—"

"Oh god dammit—"

"_That_ is a _very_ good question, Germany!" Spain put his cheek in hand and laughed while Romano practically slammed his forehead down on the table. "See, once upon a time, Romano was my precious little protectorate—"

"It's kind of a sore subject for Romano," Italy sighed.

"—he was tiny and his face was really cute, but he was so stubborn, he arrived at my house and didn't want to eat a single thing he was served, and he wouldn't even wear any of the clothes I bought for him—"

"He forced me to learn Spanish because of the '_importance of communication and diplomacy_.'" Romano shot Spain a look like this had all gone on only yesterday. "And look where it got me, now I can order food in another country. How fucking useful."

"Romano, I think you're forgetting literally thousands of legal documents you needed to be able to read," Spain reminded him, beaming. "And think about how many negotiations were made easier because you could speak more than one language. I taught you Spanish because I wanted to help you."

"We _both_ needed to learn new languages at some point, you know," Italy pointed out. "Plus, Romano, at least you didn't have to learn a language that doesn't have anything in common with Italian. Nowadays I feel kind of bad for Austria since he tried really hard to teach me German even if I was bad at it. He's the only reason I know any at all."

"You're not so bad," Germany told him, with complete honesty. "I can usually manage to understand you."

"You only think so because I'll just reword my sentence if I'm not sure how to say something." Italy shook his head and laughed. "I'm just getting worse and worse over time as my vocabulary gets outdated, too. Though I guess I should just be glad I don't speak Italian like you'll try to do, Germany."

"That's a horrifying thought. I still haven't figured out how to make that rolled 'R' sound you're all so fond of."

Italy grinned and cleared his throat, demonstrating for him by making a sustained purring sound—Germany waved an annoyed hand at him.

"Yeah, yeah, I know it's easy for you. You're only allowed to make fun of me once you've learned how to say 'Ich' properly."

"Fuck, you two act like a couple when you aren't even trying." Romano sighed and folded his arms. "Look, Veneziano, I'm not saying German isn't hard. But was Austria a complete fucking cock about it when he taught you? No. Spain was a _cock_."

"I bet that's not true at all, Romano! Spain, you weren't a mean teacher were you?"

"Well—I guess Romano's not completely wrong." Spain laughed again and gave Romano an apologetic little smile. "I wasn't very patient when I was younger, you know, and Romano being so stubborn really rubbed me the wrong way. I was always getting aggravated with him for putting up a fight and not doing what he was told. So I decided I'd come up with some extra incentive for him—I started talking to him only in Spanish, and if Romano didn't answer me back the same way I made him do extra chores. I was shocked by how fast he ended up learning so many new curse words!"

"But I hardly ever _did_ the extra chores," said Romano, resentful.

"Yeah, that's true. But you got so annoyed you ended up learning after all, didn't you? You spoke Spanish as well as anybody in just a few years and I was really proud of you for that—though, looking back on it, I do feel bad for forcing you rather than letting you become interested on your own. I've always been impressed by how smart and hardworking you can be when you try, Roma."

Romano's cheeks reddened a little, but their tapas arriving meant he had found himself an excuse not to acknowledge the compliment. However, just before setting down the last glass of wine, the employee glanced up and stared oddly at Italy's face. She tried saying something to him, but Italy shook his head and allowed Spain to answer for him—a brief conversation ensued, with the employee's tone steadily growing more adamant the more they spoke. Germany might have thought there was something wrong except Romano was apparently trying very hard to keep himself from cracking up.

"What?" Italy asked. "Spain, what's she saying? Did I do something wrong?"

"Uh—" Spain turned around to face Italy with an apologetic look. "Sorry, I tried to tell her, Ita, but she says she can't be sure by looking at you that you're old enough to drink. The bar doesn't want to get in trouble, so—"

Romano laughed outright at the defeated sigh Italy gave as he reached for his wallet and produced some identification, proving that he was indeed of legal drinking age. The employee moved on to serve other customers, but the damage had already been done—Spain's sympathetic expression finally began to crack while he passed the I.D. back to its owner, and even Germany had to use some measure of self-control just to keep his mouth shut.

"It's really not all that funny, you know," Italy complained. He let out a frustrated puff of breath that lifted the hair from his forehead. "Germany and me say we're the same age but I bet no one's ever questioned _him_ just because he's all tall and frowny!"

"I'm sure she was just double-checking," Germany said, trying to be kind.

"Yeah, Ita, they're just trying to keep kids from drinking. And it's not all bad if people think you come off as younger than you say you are, right? If she thought you looked too young that just means she thinks you're cute!"

"Romano, aren't _you_ gonna say something to make me feel better?" Italy asked, sniffing in his general direction. "Or were you planning to just keep on laughing over there?"

Romano continued to shake with suppressed laughter even as Spain elbowed him in the side.

"Just let him, Italy," Germany sighed. "Apparently Schadenfreude is a cross-cultural thing."

"_What?_" Romano immediately spun around with a deeply offended look. "The hell is that, some kind of German disease?"

"No, Romano, it's—no. That's not what that is."

"Roma's got schadenfreude!"

"Shut up! What the _hell_ is schadenfreude?"

"It's when you laugh at bad things happening to other people!" said Italy, reaching behind him with alarm to cover Germany's ears. "Now stop it, look at what you're doing! You're pronouncing it so bad you're hurting him!"

"Forget I said anything." Germany forced himself to stop grimacing long enough to pull Italy's hands away. "Let's just move on and eat, alright?"

"Schadenfreude." Spain's pronunciation was still horrible, and now he was the one laughing. "I'll have to remember that."

* * *

><p><strong>Culture Notes<strong>

*Stein is a shortening of the German word _Steingut_ (lit. stoneware), but this term is actually an English invention and not used in Germany. Instead, Germans would say _Humpen_ (lit. mug). I went ahead and used stein to avoid confusing anyone over a throw-away line.

*At most tapas restaurants standing to eat at the bar is cheaper than sitting at a table or out on the patio. Spain is a cheapskate, so their group will be standing up at the bar almost the whole night.

*Gazpacho – Cold vegetable soup, as was already mentioned. Many recipes add bread to the soup, as Spaniards used to add their stale bread to the soup instead of wasting it.

*Jamón Serrano – Dry-cured Spanish ham, served raw in slices. Translates to "mountain ham." In Spain's Marukaite Chikyuu he calls it the best ham in the world.

*Napkins – Seriously, some people swear that you can find the best tapas bars by looking for somewhere with lots of napkins on the ground. There won't be a sea of them on the floor, but there can be enough of them under tables and chairs and such that it can be a little gross to people not used to it.

*Patatas Bravas – Potato dish that's been chopped up and fried, comes with a spicy tomato sauce. It's like the Spanish version of French fries.

*Legal Drinking Age – You need to be 18 years old to drink in most parts of Spain. In Italy you must be 16, and in Germany you can drink wine and beer in public at 14 as long as you've got a parent with you (and stronger stuff, starting at 16). In both Italy and Germany there is no minimum drinking age for alcohol consumption in private. In Spanish bars they won't bother with identification as long as you can pass for 18 or older, but if you look especially young you might be asked to prove your age—this is pretty rare though, so this scene happening in a tapas bar in Spain is intentionally ridiculous. I just like to think Italy's got a baby face and a disposition that makes people question the age he says he is.


	13. Chapter 13

"You have to admit," said Spain, smiling proudly as he finished off his wine glass, "I think coming to Valencia's been one of the best ideas I've had in a long time. See, I knew everything would work out eventually!"

Germany made no effort to conceal his snort.

"That's not what you seemed to think earlier this afternoon."

"Oh be quiet, I don't want anything I said earlier being repeated." Spain waved a dismissive hand at him; Italy raised a curious eyebrow but didn't ask. "Anyway, weren't _you_ the one being so pessimistic at the beginning you didn't even want to come?"

"I wasn't being pessimistic," Germany retorted. "I was _trying_ to reduce the risk of vehicular homicide."

It was getting to be very late. It was so late, in fact, that they were quickly approaching even Spain's 'one in the morning is a reasonable time for bed' idea of late, and yet here they were, still loitering around long after any sensible person would have gone home for the evening. It was a good thing that even Germany wasn't feeling very sensible at the moment, however, which may or may not have been thanks to the mild haze of inebriation he was currently experiencing, but for right now he was perfectly happy to stay right where he was. He was fine with feeling both comfortable and tired as he let Italy steer the conversation in nonsensical directions and listened to Spain's passionately told stories of the past. Germany could even say that for the first time in a long while that he actually felt relaxed, with work and responsibilities becoming only a distant thought in his head. Finally he could remember why it was that once upon a time he used to give himself more time off: because if he didn't, if he never actually let himself _enjoy_ the results of his own hard work, then it was pretty easy to lose sight of why he kept doing it in the first place.

"Hey, and it wasn't _all_ just your idea anyway, Spain," Italy said, sticking out his bottom lip. "You wanted to take us to Valencia but _I'm_ the one who had the tapas idea, remember?"

"Well yes, but technically _I_ had the tapas idea, so I think I'll go ahead and take credit for it anyway." Spain grinned at him teasingly and started a big stretch. "Mmm—I think the beach tired me out more than I thought. Hey, are you asleep, Roma?"

Romano had been silent for a good fifteen minutes now, slumped over the table with his head in his arms. He hadn't ordered any more to drink than Italy or Spain, yet the added exhaustion he'd given himself at the beach seemed to have turned him loopy and this had naturally and humorously been a major highlight of the evening. It was too bad he'd already crashed and burned, really, because tipsy Romano was decidedly more tolerable than the normal version, so long as his usual antagonistic streak was lost to drunken oblivion. He'd barely complained past the first hour, acted perfectly amicable by the second, and not so long ago, when he'd still been mostly awake, he'd even decided to humor Spain by joining him in singing the lyrics to some music playing out on the streets. In a way, Romano's wine-fueled transformation had been remarkably similar to what one might expect out of Italy—though fortunately reversed from his brother's usual process of starting off friendly and becoming unbearable.

"Sorry, m'awake," Romano yawned. His unprompted apology was one of the most beautiful things Germany had ever heard. "Lil' drunk and really tired, though."

Spain nodded understandingly. Neither he nor Italy seemed to think Romano's behavior had been anything out of the ordinary, but then again they'd been the ones insisting Romano had a softer side to him all along. Germany, of course, had long considered this to be the kind of fairy tale you eventually gave up believing in, like Santa Claus, or France being appropriate, so having this long-held belief destroyed so suddenly had been an entirely welcome shock. He didn't know how long this would last—or, indeed, whether they'd all be paying for it later, once Romano had slept and sobered up—but for now it was nice.

"See, Roma? I _told_ you you'd wear yourself out by the end of today, didn't I?" Spain began to rub little circles into Romano's shoulder—Germany cringed, because under normal circumstances this would be like attempting to pet a shark—but Romano did not react to it except to bury his face back in his arms. "You can't fool me, I knew you'd throw your whole heart into it if you got to go to the beach."

Romano murmured something completely inaudible.

"Hm? Are you trying to talk to the table or to me?"

"I said—" Romano picked his head back up, sighing tiredly. "I said you really didn't have to do all this."

There was a momentary pause for silence.

"Uh." There was a note of caution in Spain's voice, but his expression was already brightening with hope. Even Italy seemed to have realized the gravity of this moment, as he had his eyes suddenly on Romano as well. "Do—what, Roma?"

"Don't be stupid," Romano muttered. He did not say this as he normally would, but rather in such a way that it came out sounding gentle. "I know we're here because of me. You took us all to the beach even if it was an insane idea because you thought it'd make me happy. And it _did_ make me happy. I'm just saying you didn't have to, alright?"

There was another silence. Romano dropped his head again, cheeks warming, but he did not try to take back his words. This by itself was a sort of minor miracle.

"You know, somehow I don't think you really needed to say that, Romano," Italy laughed, once it seemed safe to speak again. "I think we all knew already."

"Shut up, Vene."

"Both of you quit it," said Spain, pointing an accusatory finger at Italy in particular. "It doesn't matter whether I knew, it still makes me happy. Thank you, Romano."

"Mmf."

"Just like I said, best idea I've had in a long time!" Spain looked to be beside himself with joy, and even Italy couldn't stop beaming. "If we do this again though, let's try aiming for not spending quite so much money in the process, shall we?"

"I believe that was entirely _your_ fault, Spain," Germany informed him.

"I know. I'm an idiot." Spain didn't seem too upset by it, though, and he put his arms and head on the table in an imitation of Romano and grinned at him. Romano looked back shyly in response. "You saying that was all I wanted to hear, though."

* * *

><p>They decided to call it a night soon after, if for no other reason than to ensure they made it back to the hotel before Romano lost consciousness, and the walk back to the car was pleasantly quiet. Germany spent most of it trying to commit to memory the beauty of Valencia's nighttime and the sparkle of stars over head, and he didn't mind it when Italy reached out stealthily and took his hand. Romano wasn't paying attention anyway, and Germany was in a strange enough mood that he really didn't care if anyone else might be paying attention either. What did it matter, really? That feeling grew the longer they walked and pretty soon it was remarkably hard to even give a damn about the repercussions if he just gave in and kissed him already, right there and then.<p>

It occurred to Germany that perhaps this was how people like Italy _always _felt, or how Spain and Romano always felt, and by the time they'd arrived back at their room and Germany was in the shower—still feeling the itch of sand all over him, shoulders starting to sting—he even began to feel a little sorry for them all. Wasn't _he_ one of those people who cast a judgmental look at anyone brazen enough to make their love affairs obvious to the world? He already felt plenty frustrated with himself for being so stiff and unpracticed when he actually _did_ want to show affection for other people; it was terrible to think that it could be much, much worse if he always felt like _this_.

Truly, alcohol and tiredness was a match made in hell.

"Germany!" Spain looked quite surprised when Germany reemerged from the bathroom in the clothes he would be wearing to bed. "Wow, I think this is the first time I've ever seen you in pajamas."

It seemed that Spain, Romano and Italy had relocated to the couch and armchair in Germany's absence and gotten themselves engrossed in some old Spanish film they'd found on television. However, Spain's preoccupation with translating the movie meant that neither he nor Italy seemed to have realized that Romano was already asleep. Worse than just asleep, _far_ worse than just asleep, Romano hadn't just lain down across the ample free space the couch could have provided him, oh no. Romano, with an expression of deceptive innocence on his features, had curled up and gone to sleep with his entire upper torso in Spain's lap.

"I hope you realize he's going to murder all of us if he wakes up like that," Germany pointed out.

"Haha, no need to worry!" Spain ran his fingers through Romano's hair in a pointless effort to make it lie flat, completely unconcerned for his own safety or anyone else's. "If I know anything about Romano it's that he can sleep through people talking just fine. And don't _you_ worry, Roma," he added, leaning down to speak to him in an adoring whisper, "you're way too cute for me to make you move no matter what Germany says."

"I guess Romano was pretty out of it," laughed Italy. "I watched him and he just laid down and got comfortable right where he was. Spain didn't exactly stop him—he's the one who tucked the pillow under his head."

"Why would you encourage him? Aren't your legs just going to go numb anyway?"

"I can barely feel my them as it is. But my love will persevere!"

Italy laughed again as he stood up from the chair and flounced over to hug Germany around the middle.

"Germany's the type who'll dump you on the ground for doing stuff like laying on him too heavy," Italy informed Spain, in an very affectionate manner. "He's very practical and he won't put up with stuff just because it's romantic."

"Such as you running at me with no warning and knocking us both to the ground?"

"That was an accident!" Italy pouted at him and quickly changed the subject. "Anyway, don't you feel silly for thinking tapas would be a bad idea now? See, Spain and me controlled ourselves just like we said, and Romano's a lot of fun when he drinks anyway! Well, except after Napoli's had a bad loss, that's when you don't want to give him anything to drink or he'll just cry for hours—hey, I don't think Spain ever _has_ seen you in pajamas, has he? Only very special people get the privilege of seeing Germany when he's not properly dressed so you should feel honored."

It seemed that the others were not going to be convinced to be mindful of their noise level no matter what Germany said. Even if Romano was just as much of a heavy sleeper as Italy he still wasn't entirely comfortable with this, knowing that he would be in the most danger if anyone managed to rouse him.

"Italy, be quiet," Germany sighed. "I just didn't want to get dressed and have to change again. And you don't have to act so shocked, Spain. You're acting like you thought I slept in my clothes."

"Oh jeeze. Does he take _everything_ the wrong way, Italy?"

"More or less," Italy affirmed.

"All I meant was that it's weird to me because usually I only see you in a suit." Spain laughed, shaking his head. "I'd say it's about as shocking as _you_ seeing Romano in a good mood, Germany. You really should have seen the look on your face a couple times tonight when Roma was being nice, I had to try so hard not to laugh."

"The real reason you all were so excited to go drinking is all too clear to me now." Germany smiled a little. "And I _am_ happy for you, Spain, by the way. Maybe you're right about things working out."

"Yeah." Spain looked down at Romano again, wistful. "I just wish it didn't have to take France making things infinitely worse before I realized I'd hurt Romano's feelings. I knew he was acting all grumpy, but—"

"Just don't tell France you said that, you'll make him think he helped."

"France _always_ thinks he helped," said Spain, his voice becoming bitter for a moment. "Actually I think I should thank you, Germany. I'm really bad at catching on sometimes, so if you hadn't told all of us off when you did—"

"But Romano _knows_ you're bad at it," Italy pointed out. "He should know by now that he needs to be more clear but he'd still rather go all moody and silent rather than explain what's really wrong most of the time! He can't get mad at you for not understanding if he won't even talk about it—"

"Unfortunately most people aren't that logical," Germany sighed. He was _very_ well-acquainted with this fact. "It's easy to assume your own point of view is just as obvious to everyone else as it is to you. As much as I'd like to think Romano's just being an ass and move on with my life, it's possible that he can't help what he feels or how he shows it any more than Spain can help things going over his head. That's the only reason my patience with him has lasted even this far, really."

Italy took a step back to stare at Germany like he'd just said the most genius thing he'd ever heard.

"What?"

"Oh my God," Spain whispered, eyes widening. "Oh my God, that's—_brilliant_. Do you really think so? That could explain it! Is that true, Roma?"

"Spain, _shh_—"

"You're the one who's been with him for centuries, that's never occurred to you before?"

"I told you, Germany, I'm bad at catching on!"

"Spain's so bad at catching on it's kind of a talent," Italy said, shaking his head in pity. "Don't worry Spain, Germany's just a million times smarter than us, you get used to it after a while. Plus, I think you're really _good_ at making Romano happy and that makes up for everything else."

Spain snorted with self-depreciation.

"Does he always say such nice things to people, Germany?"

"More or less."

"I only say nice things to people when they're true." Italy grinned. "Oh, hey Spain, should I go take my shower or do you want to go first?"

"Nope, if Roma's gonna keep being this cute I think we'll stay out here for a while longer. Getting him to bed after you're both already asleep would probably cause the least amount of trouble anyway—don't worry though, I'll be sure to make him get off me before I need my legs amputated."

"Haha, okay. I'll leave him to you then." Italy gave him a kiss on the cheek. "G'night, Spain!"

Italy pried himself away from Germany at last and headed towards the bedroom, half skipping. Germany just shook his head at him and made to follow, but he paused by the door to look back.

"Good night," Germany said, tardily.

"Oh. Good night!"

He could handle Spain and Romano like this, Germany thought. So long as they managed to keep everything family-friendly he could even see a little of why Italy had called them cute: it _was_ a little comforting to know that in between all the chaos and bickering, they also had their moments of pleasant, amicable calm. More importantly, with Romano showing no signs of stirring, and even Spain now yawning and looking tired, one could safely assume that the noise level would not be an issue again tonight. Germany felt relieved as he shut the bedroom door behind him.

* * *

><p>"What's the matter, Germany?" Italy cocked his head with worry as he unfastened the buttons on his shirt. "Do you have a stomach ache?"<p>

Germany blinked, realizing that his behavior over the last few minutes had been quite out of character. He'd been sprawled out over the sheets from the moment he'd lain down in bed, for one thing, and he'd been silent and unmoving ever since prematurely ending his search for new phone messages that weren't there. If Germany had been the one observing himself and not Italy, he most likely would have skipped the stomach ache theory and gone right to assuming terminal illness.

"I'm fine. What makes you think I have a stomach ache?"

"It was a guess." Italy shrugged and wagged a finger in his direction. "You keep making a face at me, you know."

Germany had not been aware of making any faces at all. He made a conscious effort to keep his expression more neutral as he pushed himself up on his elbows and put his phone aside.

"What face?"

"Just another of your many kinds of frowns." As Italy dropped onto the bed, Germany watched as his unbuttoned shirt slipped off one shoulder in a way that was practically obscene. He reached out to fix it for him without really knowing why. "I've gotten better at telling your faces apart but I still wouldn't know how to describe it to you. All I know is that just a little bit ago you were giving me a look that usually means something like, 'I'm Germany, and I'm _sooo_ stressed out right now I'm giving myself a stomach ache, Italy had better come distract me for a while and make it better.' Not that I mind being your distraction of course. I think I usually end up distracting you anyway."

"That would be an impressive reading if you weren't completely off the mark," Germany told him, smiling a little. "I'm _fine_, Italy, and I swear I'm not stressed. Just look at me, I've been sitting here doing nothing but wait for you to come to bed. I think I've been drugged with vacation."

"I see. That must be very difficult for you," Italy laughed. Maybe it was only because he was still a little buzzed from earlier, but Germany found himself thinking that he would probably never get tired of that sound, even if he'd heard it thousands of times over already. He was immediately horrified that his brain had produced such a thought. "Well, then what were you staring at me for?"

"Maybe I was just looking at you. Did you ever consider that?"

Italy raised an eyebrow.

"Looking at me take my clothes off?"

"Hardly." The accusation made him snort. "You've even got your underwear still on, doesn't that qualify as decent by your standards?"

"You know," said Italy, affectionately smacking him, "one of these days I'm not going to find your little stabs at me quite so funny. Then you'll be sorry, mister."

"Taking stabs is practically the foundation of our relationship. How else would we tolerate how incredibly irritating we are to one another?"

"Oh stop it." Italy had by now scooted himself clear across the bed and was centimeters from Germany's face, wearing a look of playful accusation. Germany got the feeling he'd forgotten about his shower entirely. He also got the feeling that he no longer cared whether Italy was showered at all. "_Now_ I know why you were looking at me funny. You just wanted to start trouble, didn't you? Hm? Is that it?"

"You might consider that perhaps I was just in a good mood," Germany said, as casually as possible. "And I was sitting here thinking that maybe I wanted to kiss you."

There was a look of surprise on Italy's face that quickly softened.

"Only maybe, huh?"

"Being in a good mood does not mean I've lost my sense of dignity," Germany reminded him.

"You be quiet," Italy breathed, threading his fingers through the slightly damp hair at the nape of Germany's neck. His smiled turned a little wicked and even Germany couldn't quite keep a straight face. "You should just feel lucky that even when you're being mean to me I still want to kiss you too."

He tugged Germany down to meet him, noses bumping as they tried to find a good angle, but the kiss that followed was lovely. Italy was enthusiastic, sweet as always, and even though Germany could still make out the faint taste of dinner and red wine on his breath, he did not feel entirely horrified as he decided to press in, feeling, rather than hearing, a little hum of pleasure as Italy responded in kind.

"Ow. _Ow._" The rapidly developing sunburn across Germany's shoulders did _not_ appreciate the pressure being applied when Italy's arms circled around his neck. Italy flinched away immediately at the noise of pain, confused about what he'd done. "Careful. The sunburn?"

"Oh! Sorry, I didn't—are you okay?"

Germany sighed, and even knowing that he was putting himself at risk for further pain by doing so, he still pressed Italy down to the pillows and met his mouth again. There was a sharp intake of breath as Italy's hands palmed his jaw; he kissed him slowly this time, as if to apologize, but Germany wasn't going to have it. He settled over him a little more heavily and set a new pace with a fierce, open-mouthed kiss, and Italy just huffed a sigh of laughter into his mouth as he yielded to him.

Kissing, like a lot of things that pertained to love and relationships in general, had no firmly established rules, no guidelines, and required a certain amount of spontaneity. It was essentially the stuff of Germany's nightmares and yet he'd ended up surprising himself by just how quickly he'd caught on, even if it was still occasionally confusing—but the good kind of confusing, he thought, like a pleasant surprise that happened time and time again. Germany never would have guessed that he could be here, happy just to have Italy respond to him in earnest, and to feel his heart racing under his fingertips. To be perfectly honest, Germany had assumed at first that maybe Italy had some innate talent for this, and that was why kissing him felt so nice. He was slowly beginning to realize, among other things, that maybe it felt nice because he was Italy, and therefore plenty appealing to kiss all on his own.

Italy's hands slipped away from Germany's face, settling on his upper arms instead. There was a pause in which their eyes met, and Germany felt a throb in his chest and a general inability to swallow just from the breathless smile Italy gave him. He immediately leaned in again, trailing his lips down along Italy's soft jawline and chin and eventually down to his neck, making him respond with a gasping shudder, back arched.

Italy mouthed the words, 'I love you,' and everything but this moment seemed abruptly unimportant. Germany touched his cheek, feeling some foreign, unrestrained emotion inside him that forced everything else from his mind. He tried to examine what he felt, tried to deduce what it might be and comprehend it, but he already knew it was useless, and it had always been useless, in this one, single facet of life that he'd long misunderstood.

Now, however, a new dilemma faced him. Germany hardly did anything at all without a good deal of planning and scheduling, but somewhere along the line, without him realizing, he'd lost the willpower to stop what was happening before it reached its logical conclusion. In fact, he was _so_ far from wanting to stop right now that he was seriously considering the logistics of it. Italy pulled at him again, meeting his lips in a dizzying kiss, and Germany wanted so badly to throw all caution to the wind and just _act_ on this mad impulse before rationality caught up with him. He hooked his thumbs into Italy's underwear and for just a brief moment he considered how easy it would be if he just got up to lock the bedroom door.

"Your phone," said Italy.

Germany stopped. His phone rang cheerfully on the nightstand, though for a few moments he didn't want to understand what this meant or why the gods had decided to punish him so. Sluggishly, Germany's brain began to accept what the rest of him could not: that the moment was over, finished, even if the feeling behind it had had not yet faded.

Germany rolled off to the other side of the bed, letting out such a loud, exasperated groan that it made Italy burst out laughing. He reached for his phone and was already imagining himself throttling whoever it was on the other end before he even checked the caller. He did not get that far, however, because _he abruptly_ this ringtone, and somehow it did not surprise him in the least that the horribly inconsiderate individual on the other side of the call was Prussia.

* * *

><p><strong>Continued...<strong>


	14. Chapter 14

"And _that's_ why you should keep your phone off," Italy scolded, just barely calmed down. He kissed Germany on the temple and slipped off the bed. "I think you should answer it though, it could be important. I'm gonna take my shower now, I'll be back."

Germany watched him casually swagger off towards the bathroom, looking rumpled but otherwise unaffected. It all seemed too absurd, too surreal to believe.

His phone was still ringing. Quietly, with the sort of intense focus that would normally only be required for performing surgery, Germany ignored the call.

Afterward, he considered the cathartic options of pitching his phone across the room, or snapping it in half with his bare hands. He remembered how much this phone had cost him, though, and what a pain it would be to get a replacement and have to ask around for all his old contact numbers, so he put it back down instead. He glared at it for several long, despairing seconds, then flopped face down into the pillows, frustrated to a truly remarkable degree.

He didn't actually know why he'd chosen today of all days to be upset about this, considering half the time _he_ was the one stopping _himself_. Even when the stars did occasionally align and Germany didn't have a mountain of work he could be doing and he actually allowed himself to show a little interest in such activities, he still talked himself out of it so often it was ridiculous. The one time he'd really wanted to do it, he couldn't. It could have been perfect, and it could have been the best sex he'd ever had, and now he would be having none of it.

He knew, deep down, that this meant he was a massive hypocrite. He'd being feeling incredibly critical about Spain and Romano's own bedroom shenanigans not so long ago and yet Germany would have done exactly the same thing had it not been for the phone call. Sure, he still wished they hadn't kept him awake with it, but now he _sympathized_. For the first time in his life, he wondered if maybe his own Germanic culture was not actually one of stringency and decorum, even if they'd all successfully fooled themselves into thinking so. Right now it seemed so much more likely that all they were actually good at was hiding just how horny they were _all the time_.

Germany's agonized wallowing did not last long before the compulsion to be responsible hit him again. He sat up properly and decided that heartbreak and disappointment aside, he really should find out what his brother wanted.

"Prussia," he began delicately, as soon as the call connected, "I swear, if you don't have a very good reason for why you just called me—"

"Oh! Would this be Germany?" There was no mistaking that voice—it was not Prussia who had picked up, but France. Germany had forgotten about France being with Prussia entirely, and the abrupt desire to hang up on him was nearly overwhelming. "Long time no see! How have these last twenty-four hours been without me?"

"Fantastic, up until now." Germany paused, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "_You_ didn't call me, did you?"

"I recall doing nothing of the sort. I blame Prussia."

"Get him for me then, I need to yell at him."

"He's too drunk to come to the phone right now," France told him, very professionally. "He just ran to the toilet to throw up not too long ago. Shall I leave a message?"

Germany pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. He was beginning to remember why he did not normally allow France to be around Prussia in his own house without constant supervision.

"How drunk are you right now, France?"

"Not very. Even I don't enjoy having hangovers two nights in a row."

"Fine. Look, do you have any idea why it was that Prussia felt the need to call me when it's nearly two in the morning?"

"No, not really. He does drunk dial people occasionally, but he might have also just gotten a wrong number. Whatever it is, if I haven't heard about it I imagine it's not that urgent."

"God dammit." Germany sighed heavily. "Alright, just—if there's nothing actually wrong I'm going to hang up and text him about it later. Good bye."

"Hold on a second. Before you go—why are you this angry at him for calling, exactly? Did I miss something?"

"Good _bye_, France."

"Alright, alright, let me ask you a different question. Did you really say things were going_ fantastically_?" France immediately warmed to this subject. "So I assume you stayed with them and everything's fine? And Spain's okay? Does that have anything to do with _my_ influence, I wonder?"

"No," said Germany, flatly. "The reason things got better is because of me. Also, the more I see of Romano this weekend the more I'm convinced you're all idiots for thinking you could help by doing what you did. You especially. At least _Spain_ had his heart in the right place."

"You have no idea how hard it is to deal with Romano the nice way after a while," France protested. "He's _legendarily_ difficult to get along with, you know, but alright, fine, you are clearly you are the master of appeasing him."

"That is so far from the truth it's almost painful," said Germany. "Alright, one last thing. First of all, I want you long gone by the time I get there Monday morning and the house had better be cleaner than how I left it."

"Fair enough."

"Secondly, tell Prussia that he now owes me breakfast when I get back as his punishment for ruining my evening. Tell him whatever food he makes had better be so incredibly German that it makes me weep with national pride or else I will ground him for the rest of eternity."

"That's a very strict parenting style you have," said France, approvingly. "Still, I would be delighted to convey that message to him. Good night!"

Germany did feel a little better after the call had ended. He no longer wanted to destroy any of his belongings or wring any necks, though there was a part of him that was still hungry for revenge, among other things. He remembered to turn his phone _off_ this time, and fortunately he did not have to lie there in silence very long before Italy had returned, rubbing his hair dry with a towel.

"Who called, Germany?"

"Prussia, and I never did find out why. But never mind, are you alright?"

"Alright?" Italy blinked. "I'm fine. I know I was harping on you about taking phone calls but that wasn't really your fault."

"I was more concerned about you being disappointed by how events just unfolded," said Germany, frowning. "But from your reaction I'm guessing that's not an issue."

"_Ooh." _Italy lowered the towel and shook his head vigorously. "That's okay too, Germany. I mean, now that I think about it we probably shouldn't have been making out like that with Romano and Spain right on the other side of that wall."

"And the door wasn't even locked, I know." Germany watched as Italy tossed the towel aside completely and shed his bathrobe before getting into bed. He tried telling himself that his present nudity was purely functional, but he didn't do a very good job of convincing himself.

"You're giving me a really weird look again, you know. Are you okay?"

_Fuck it_, Germany thought. Never had those words been more accurate to describe his feelings on the matter.

"I'm fine. I'm just feeling annoyed that apparently I can't even manage to have sex with you when I want to."

Italy's mouth opened slightly. Maybe he wondered if this was some sort of joke, so Germany leveled his gaze at him to prove that he wasn't.

"You're weird, Germany." Italy clutched at the blankets and began to laugh awkwardly. "I know you're shy about that stuff but—jeeze, you're the only person I know who can be super brave but also super shy at the same time."

"I was even worse about it when I was younger, as Prussia would be glad to tell you." Germany sighed, gaze drifting towards the ceiling. "Luckily my childhood was spent surrounded by idiots who couldn't get anything done without me so eventually I had to get over it."

"Ha ha, really? That's so cute though, I can really imagine you being that way!" When Germany looked back again, Italy was smiling at him in a manner that was entirely too innocent for this conversation. Italy seemed to realize this as well because he coughed before gathering his thoughts. "Um—well, it's nice to know that you'd want to and all, but… now's not really the greatest time?"

"Yes, I realize."

"Yeah. And I know I can't just tell you 'quit being so shy!' but that's kind of what I want to say to you right now. You should at least try not to ignore your feelings so long that you blow up at the end, you know? I know that you have other stuff that's very important to you and you should definitely put those things first, but ignoring something you feel is just gonna make you frustrated and that doesn't help at all."

"I know."

"Aw, don't sound so depressed, Germany!" Italy hugged his arm. "It's fun but it's not everything, that's what I think, so it's fine with me if sex is just a sometimes thing with us. We don't have to be—you know. Romano and Spain, or whatever."

Germany very deliberately did not look him in the eye.

"I don't think I want to know what you meant to imply there."

"I meant to imply that they pretty much do it all the time," Italy told him, ignoring the disgruntled noise Germany made. "I figure it doesn't matter so long as you're happy with what you've got, though. And I'm happy, so no worries!"

Italy pecked him at the side of the mouth and flopped down, seemingly content. Germany was surprised at him being finished with what he wanted to say already—he'd expected some sort of heartfelt display of emotion, for deep-seated emotional problems to come bubbling to the surface, maybe for Italy to admit his hidden resentment over the matter. Instead he'd acted like it was something he'd been alright with all this time and it made Germany feel like an idiot.

"I'm gonna go to sleep now, Germany. I'll try to stay way over on this side so I don't cause a stink with Romano."

He pulled the blankets up to his shoulders and reached for the lamp, throwing the room into darkness. Germany, rather than moving away as far as he could and letting himself wonder what Romano might still find objectionable about it, stubbornly shifted over and settled in right behind Italy.

"Germany? Why're you over here?"

"Because Romano can deal with it," Germany told him, sternly, eyes already closed. He buried his face in Italy's shoulder. "You made me feel better. You don't get to talk to me like that and get off easy."

Italy laughed.

"Jeeze, Germany. Has this been bugging you this whole time? You really are like Romano, never telling anybody stuff—"

"Go to sleep, Italy."

"Pft, fine. Good night."

* * *

><p>Veneziano and Germany had quite obviously missed the point of the beach altogether, in Romano's opinion. He'd been watching them every now and then, in between all the running and splashing and occasional screaming, but in all this time he hadn't seen much actual <em>swimming <em>going on. Alright, so maybe sometimes he'd see Veneziano paddling up and down the shoreline a few times, but for the most part he seemed incapable of leaving Germany's side. _Ridiculous_, Romano thought. They were acting like the beach was nothing more than some pleasant backdrop for their socializing, and this seemed to Romano like the sort of criminal negligence people ought to be arrested for.

Maybe Romano would be able to forgive them for this if they could even spend time with each other like normal people—but no, leave those two together for more than five seconds and they went right back to that infuriating way of just _staring_ at each other.

_Do something!_ Romano wanted to shout at them. _Just_ _do something already! Punch him in the face, kiss him, I don't care anymore, just something! _Germany was looking at Veneziano with one of those terrible half-assed smiles, and Veneziano, unable to keep a conversation going, had fallen into steady silence. Worse still, even with each wave that rolled in bringing them closer and closer to touching, apparently they were both too dense to have realized. What was _wrong _with them?

"You know it's not polite to stare, Roma," said Spain, being completely unhelpful.

"Do they even _like _each other?" groused Romano. Salt water came pouring off of him as he followed Spain up wet sand, the occasional lazy wave rolling in and lapping at his ankles.

"You are incredible." Spain almost laughed with disbelief. "What're they doing wrong _now_? You're the one who practically banned them from showing any affection in front of you, remember?"

"I didn't," Romano said, affronted. "I did not. I told Germany to stop pissing me off, they started this other shit on their own."

"I wonder why," said Spain, giving him a look. "Hey, I might not understand all this, but I do know you keep glaring at them or complaining whenever they do anything. So what are they supposed to think, Romano? You can't ask for the impossible."

When they approached the blanket, Spain dropped to his knees and began to shift through everyone's discarded clothing. While Romano might have thrown off his clothes and run into the water the very second they arrived, Germany had decided to be as pointlessly neat as ever and make an attempt to fold his things and set them down in a little pile off to the side. Ridiculous.

"What are you doing?" asked Romano.

"You're just like a little duckling sometimes, you know," said Spain, laughing happily. "I go somewhere and you just follow along with no idea—"

"I do not," Romano snapped, feeling his stupid, traitorous cheeks go warm. Despite this firm denial, he did have to admit that he hadn't exactly thought about it before getting out of the water. "Maybe I just wanted to take a break from swimming, ever consider that?"

"The Romanito I know and love does not take breaks from swimming," Spain reminded him. It was a fair point. "I'm just looking for my water, I'm thirsty."

Romano sighed as he waited on him, and he kicked at the sand at his feet just to watch it fly upward and settle again. He was the kind of person who actually liked sand, just for its texture and the way it felt when he took a handful of it and let it fall through his fingers. Sand was also one of the most versatile substances he knew of: you could bury things in it, write in it, make kick-ass sandcastles, even throw big wet clumps of it at people when they weren't looking. Romano shook some sand out of his hair from when he'd gotten nailed him earlier, and he noticed that even Spain still had some wet sand smeared across his shoulder blade.

"Aha, found it! Not sure how it ended up in Ita's pants, but—alright, Roma, I'm gonna drink the rest unless you want some—"

"Be my guest," said Romano, sighing again. He brushed at Spain's back and flung the sand away. "That thing's been sitting out for hours anyway. I don't want it if it's warm and you've already had your mouth on it."

Spain abruptly turned away from him, but not before Romano caught the slight twitch in his lips.

"Agh," Romano choked, understanding. "_You're_ incredible! Aren't you supposed to be an _adult?_"

"Sorry." Spain coughed and tried to collect himself, but keeping a straight face proved to be an obvious struggle for him. "You said that, and my brain went—"

"Yeah, I _know_ where your brain went." Romano dropped down next to him, finally willing to admit that maybe all that furious splashing around had left him a little tired, and maybe a break—a long break—wouldn't be too bad. He tried to refocus elsewhere so he wouldn't have to see Spain wink ridiculously at him but instead of doing the smart thing and letting his eyes fall on some pretty piece of scenery—he simply refused to let the beach be scenery, he just couldn't insult it that way—he looked right back out at the water. He watched, almost hypnotized, as a wave really did knock Veneziano's shoulder into Germany's, and then they hastily separated yet again.

"Spain."

"Mm?"

Romano jabbed his thumb in the direction of the woods behind them and as far away from the sea as possible.

"I'm gonna go take a walk."

"Uh—okay?" Spain smiled at him, clearly puzzled. Honestly, of all the times to not get it. "Is that supposed to be code for needing to go pee? There aren't any toilets around so you'll just need to go if you have to—"

"That's not it." Romano tried very hard to maintain his calm as he stood up, patting the sand from his shorts. He noticed that Spain had not moved. "Are you coming with me or not?"

"Oh! Can I?"

"Do you need a formal invitation or something?" Romano threw on his shirt and hauled Spain up to his feet. "C'mon, we're running out of sunlight."

* * *

><p><strong>Culture Notes <strong>- None!

**Romano's POV -** This scene (and it's continuation next chapter) was originally written because I felt that I should show part of the story from Romano's POV, since the rest of the fic could only show the nastiest, most shallow aspects of Romano, and that just didn't seem fair to me since I believe he's a pretty complex character. So I started to write it at the time it should have fit in chronologically, but I realized that it would have to introduce some information too soon (you will see this shortly) and that it was also thematically pretty jarring, so I gave up on it and threw what I had finished into my idea pile, if I ever wanted to come back to it. However, once I got to this part of the story I realized that this scene would actually work very well here so I decided to polish it up and add it back in. I hope this isn't too confusing to anybody, but I (hopefully) made it abundantly clear where this scene takes place in the timeline. Oh the trials and tribulations of writing.**  
><strong>


	15. Chapter 15

There were times when Romano really hated being so stupidly emotional—he'd just never been able to handle much social interaction without feeling completely worn out. As it was, he could easily be reduced to tears over the stupid things other people said, and then he might be over it ten minutes later when someone made him laugh. He was the type of person who could quite literally be content one second and angry or sad or overjoyed the next. For some reason he just couldn't help but throw his ridiculous feelings into everything he did, and he often thought that his life would be so much easier if he could actually be the heartless asshole everyone thought he was.

"You know," said Spain, smiling like sunshine as he squeezed Romano's hand, "I'm starting to get the feeling you don't think Germany and Ita are nearly as cute together as I do."

"You would be correct," Romano answered, tonelessly. He led them further and further through the trees, the fallen leaves and twigs that crunched under their feet startling birds from their perches. These woods were actually part of some kind of nature reserve, if Romano was remembering correctly, so he was fairly confident he wouldn't get them lost even if he tried—if they walked far enough down this meandering path they were on it would eventually wind its way around a small lake and lead them back the other way. "Now how much further do I have to drag you before you stop bringing them up?"

Romano stumbled backwards from a sudden tug on his arm, not realizing that Spain had come to a stop.

"Hold on, Romano."

"What for?"

"Well—is that why you wanted to come here all of a sudden? To get away from Germany and Ita? Because yesterday I learned that I understood things a lot less than I thought, and letting you fume is a really bad idea." Spain's tone may have grown somber, but he'd started to rub his thumb into Romano's palm. "And I also probably shouldn't have let France get anywhere near you, for one thing."

"Probably?"

"Okay, not probably," Spain admitted. He sighed. "I've never thought this stuff was fair, you know. You and me and everyone else get to live for who knows how long, and we get loads of time to learn stuff and see things, and it's _still_ like we never get any smarter. You'd think with all this life experience behind us we'd have all reached enlightenment by now or something, wouldn't you?"

"It's because humans are stupid and we aren't any different," Romano said, turning his head away. "So being dumb for an eternity is just how it works."

"Maybe. I think the world could really use more philosophers like you, Roma, you always get right to the point." Spain paused to laugh at Romano's unamused expression. "I'm sorry, I keep forgetting that I said I wouldn't tease. It's really hard to resist."

"I don't care, just stop saying you're sorry." Romano had heard him saying that _way_ too many times yesterday. You'd think a person might consider a manner settled after the makeup sex was over and done with, after a person had practically gotten his pants torn off of him just to make him shut up, but of course real world logic never worked on Spain. "I swear to God, Spain, I am not above begging."

"Oh c'mon, you know I hate when I upset people and can't even realize how serious it is—"

"Yeah, but _you_ know I don't stay mad at you for this kind of crap. It'd be like staying mad at a five year old, it's pointless."

"Well then you know how I deal with how unbelievably frustrating you are," said Spain, laughing again. "I really do mean it though, Roma. I don't want to make you sad again, so I think you should try explaining things to me so I can understand them. I know that's hard for you, but as bad as I might be at figuring your feelings I know I can at least listen."

Romano swallowed, fully meeting Spain's eyes for the first time since dragging him into the woods. He and Spain had always been like this, butting heads and pissing each other off, but it was nice to occasionally be reminded that Spain never meant some of the more devastating things that came out of his mouth—he was just remarkably accomplished at not getting it. Romano hoped that Spain could understand he didn't mean it either. Not usually, anyway.

"There's not much to understand," Romano told him, pointlessly evasive.

"You never make things easy, do you?" Spain observed him fondly, reaching out to tuck some wet hair behind Romano's ear. "Think of it this way—not having much to it just means it won't take very long to explain, right? I really don't care if it's short or long though, I just want to make sure I know what's going on with you."

"I'm just—" Romano huffed out a sigh, inwardly cursing him. Fucking Spain could be more comforting than a warm blanket sometimes. "I'm just mad because it's the same shit it always is. You know I get pissed just having to think about them, and I swear to God I try to ignore it all but it's a hell of a lot harder when they're right in front of my face."

"Yeah, I guess I didn't really consider that doing this might just make it worse." Spain looked thoughtful. "The theory was that if you just got to know Germany you'd stop feeling that way, but… I'm starting to realize that maybe it's not just your differences that gets you all grumpy with him. I know that Germany might be a little—stiff sometimes, but I can tell that your brother really likes him, so you must have a good reason for not wanting to accept that. Right?"

"You're really misunderstanding this on a fuckin' fundamental level," Romano muttered. "It's how they act, alright? Veneziano turns into this whole other person around Germany. He's _always_ doing some kind of song and dance for him and Germany's always been a complete dick about it. It's _exactly_ the same as it was seventy years ago and you don't see how that could _possibly _concern me? Fuck, I bet they've probably never even had a fight!"

"Never had a—?" Spain had seemed to follow pretty well until this point; now he just looked confused. "You don't like it that they don't _fight_?"

"Well it's not normal! It feels like—it's like I'm looking at some old married couple or something!" Romano was a little surprised at himself for making what seemed a pretty apt comparison, despite his usual ineloquence on the matter. "They're this old couple, and they don't even argue anymore but they _hate_ each other, you know? They're fucking miserable, that's how bad it is, but they've been stuck together so long they can't remember what they saw in each other and they also wouldn't know what to do with themselves if they actually separated! _That's_ what they remind me of!"

"Okay stop, wait a second." Spain took both of Romano's hands this time, ending his tirade. "Do you realize this Ita and Germany we're talking about here? Somehow I doubt they have much to argue about when one of them doesn't complain much and the other one probably—schedules meetings instead of getting into fights, or something."

"That doesn't mean—"

"You know, Romano, it _is_ actually possible that you wouldn't fight with somebody because you just get along with them." Spain smiled a little. "I think this might be one of those cases where you'll want to go with the simple explanation, okay? Maybe something just seems wrong to you because they show their affection in a way that doesn't fit your standards."

"My _standards_ aren't the problem," Romano said, stiffening.

"That's—" Spain sighed and shook his head, somehow managing to sound both adoring and exasperated at the same time. "That's not what I was trying to say. What I mean is that maybe you're expecting something not everybody looks for, you know? Not everybody has a relationship that's all—fireworks and confetti all the time. And that's fine! Being in love like that can he really exhausting even when everything's going well." Spain took a meaningful pause. "So… I guess I'm saying it might not _sound_ very romantic, but I think the kind of love that's gentle can definitely be just as strong as the kind that's passionate."

Romano blinked at him.

"Somehow I doubt that's an original thought of yours."

"Well—no, I think Prussia might've said that originally. Actually I don't remember, I just think it's true!" Spain laughed at himself. "C'mon, Roma. There's nothing wrong with treating somebody you love like your best friend, right? People fall in love with their best friends all the time. Like me!"

"You call everyone your best friend. Normal people only have one."

"Hey, don't you go telling me how to live my life." Spain grinned at him playfully. "Okay, so—the reason you don't like Germany is because of his personality, basically? That doesn't make much sense to me though. I mean, it's sweet of you to want what's best for Ita, but I don't think glaring at them all the time and telling them to quit acting lovey-dovey gets your point across very well. Personally I think it's great as long as they're happy, so why worry about them?"

"For fuck's sake." Romano tore his hands back away from Spain, just so he could gesticulate with appropriate violence. _This_ was why he never talked about these things—he could never think of the right words to say and Spain could never connect the dots. "You think I don't care whether Veneziano's happy?"

"You're putting words in my mouth," Spain protested. "I'm just saying—"

"Veneziano being happy is _exactly_ the reason Germany gets me so pissed off. If his shitty personality was all I cared about don't you think I should start getting mad at _myself_ first?"

"Romano—"

"I'm not done. Look—Veneziano might be an idiot who went and fell for the dullest motherfucker on Earth, but you know what? Whether I like Germany or not _doesn't fucking matter_ because it's Vene's life and not mine." Romano's voice tore slightly, and he hated that it did—he tried to pretend it didn't happen, even as Spain reflexively reached out for him. "I told you, the _problem_ is how much Veneziano _changes_ when he's with him. He goes all quiet, practically brainless, and it's like he has to sit down and shut up just to get Germany to give him the fucking time of day. Do you know Veneziano's got to fucking ask him about his _schedule_ just so he can fucking _see _him?"

Spain tried to speak again but Romano cut him off. He had to say all of this before his temper cooled and all his stupid little anxieties made him lose the will to do it.

"My _point,"_ he ground out, "is that it's fucking painful to watch Veneziano forgetting who he is and what's important to him just because he's got some boring _prick_ he's constantly trying to please. He's setting himself up for getting his heart broken and he doesn't fucking deserve that shit again. I swear to God, I am _not_ going to watch Veneziano spend the rest of his life wasting his love and energy on some fucker who keeps acting like my fucking little brother, fucking northern Italy, is just a pain in his fucking side and always will be!"

Spain had been rendered momentarily speechless.

"Wait. So you're saying—?"

"I _really_ don't give a fuck about Germany either way," said Romano, glaring furiously at the ground, "but no one dates Italia Veneziano and gets away with all his shit. End of story."

"Oh my God." The strain of trying to understand all this was evident on Spain's face and now he looked like he'd just had a few hundred years shaved off his life. "But all this time you—Jesus, Romano. How the heck is anyone supposed to figure this stuff out?"

Romano's gaze snapped back to his, and he come so close to shouting in Spain's face that he'd already opened his mouth just as he came to realize that perhaps this wasn't actually the stupid question he wished it was.

He knew Veneziano was constantly hounding him, asking why he couldn't just be nice, and Romano wondered whether he'd ever actually given him the whole reason, or whether the stupid things he said when he was angry were the only things to get through. In truth, it was incredibly difficult for him to talk about these things, or even just accept that his little brother had grown up while he wasn't looking. It was embarrassing to admit he cared, and whenever the subject did come up at all they were usually shouting uselessly at each other long before the crux of the issue even had the chance to come to light.

Romano deflated, his anger feeling more senseless than ever. He'd been _living_ with Veneziano for these last few centuries, for Christ's sake, and it'd still done jack shit for their communication skills. If anyone needed proof that nations were really fucking stupid, he thought, they would be a prime example.

"I don't—fuck. I don't know." Romano leaned into Spain, secretly hoping he'd get a hug out of all this—he felt his heart do an idiotic flip in his chest as Spain immediately pulled him close, like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do. "I'm too fucking stupid to do anything right. Everything that comes out of my fucking dumbshit mouth just makes things worse."

"Not _all _the time," Spain assured him, rubbing his back. "You're just—very complicated? I'll be honest though, I think this is one of the most confusing conversations I think I've ever had with you."

"How do you think _I_ feel?"

"I'm going to take a wild guess and say frustrated. So how about we try calming down? It's never a good sign when you start cursing like it's punctuation."

Romano sighed, fisting his hands into Spain's shirt as he relaxed against him. He noticed that the remaining sunlight that streamed through the trees had turned everything red and golden, and he supposed even if they started right now, there would be very little light still left by the time they walked back to where Germany and Veneziano were. Still, Romano would much rather end up stumbling back to the beach in the dark than to pull away from Spain's embrace even a second before he had to.

"Actually," Spain began again, "I'd like to tell you that you should have just asked Ita's opinion on all this stuff, but—I kind of did the same thing, didn't I? I was trying to help you get along with Germany for your brother's sake, but I never asked what was really going on. So I can't really yell at you for this or else I'd be a hypocrite."

"Especially since you were still the bigger jerk about it," accused Romano, half-heartedly.

"Nice try, but after hearing all that I'm starting to think the bigger jerk was definitely you." Spain pecked him on the cheek. "You know, even if I think you're probably trying to protect Ita in the worst way possible, hearing you say all that stuff still kind of made me want to cry. I don't even remember when the last time was you actually told me your feelings instead of just— storming off or whatever."

"Dealing with me is like dealing with a five year old. You knew that going in to this."

"I know," Spain agreed. "But I still basically love you so much you give me chest pains, which is kind of concerning sometimes."

"What?" Romano couldn't help it, he snorted against Spain's hair and moved back, wiping at his face. "Jesus, you say so much weird shit I don't know when to start worrying."

Spain grinned at him.

"I'll let you know when you do."

He stepped closer, catching Romano's lips in one smooth movement. It caught him off guard—and though Romano normally had a no-tolerance policy towards such things out in the open, the explosion of fluttery feelings in his stomach forced him to make an exception. They were practically in the middle of nowhere anyway, Romano reasoned, and he was no mood to turn this down anyway, so he wasted no time in reaching up to hold Spain's jaw with his hands and pressing back into him. The kiss was surprisingly passionate for something that had come out of the blue, quickly even becoming a little indecent, but if there was anything Spain could do to make everything okay, this certainly got the job done.

"Nope, nope, wait—" Spain pulled his mouth away suddenly, turning his blushing face off to the side. "Bad idea, I'm getting excited. Let's just stick to the hugging part."

Romano let out a tiny snort and bumped his forehead against Spain's shoulder.

"Idiot."

* * *

><p>Germany woke at half past nine, jerking out of a dream that involved Italy and a notable lack of clothing. Though the details were disappearing from his mind faster than he could recall them, what he did remember was quite enough to be embarrassing.<p>

He sighed and turned over to face the actual Italy, who was of course still asleep even after the mattress had been disturbed. Germany hadn't actually fallen asleep last night while still hugging him—the room was just a little too warm for that—so now he needed to reach out to him so he could touch Italy's cheek in wordless apology. It seemed incredible to him that he could look at Italy like this, with his cherubic features and expression of peaceful slumber, and he could still think that if he didn't sort things out with himself soon he was probably going to end up really losing it.

Germany decided he'd had enough sleep to get him through today, so he should probably get up and… collect his thoughts in the bathroom. Something like that. He pulled himself out of bed, careful not to make the springs creak too much, and he snatched up the clothes he'd laid out for himself the previous night.

Whoever had designed the layout to their suite had clearly not considered that maybe a person might someday want to get to the bathroom without having to awkwardly pass by the people in the other bed. Even Germany's near mastery of self control could not keep him from glancing over, and he saw that Spain and Romano had indeed come to bed sometime after Germany had gone to sleep. Somehow they'd performed a minor miracle in being quiet enough that Germany hadn't been woken up by it, but now they were cuddled up together in a position that couldn't possible be misconstrued as friendly or even accidental.

Germany realized just how far he'd come since two days ago when he caught himself thinking that Spain probably did have a very pleasant relationship with Romano so long as one of them was unconscious. His second thought was to wonder if this was the real reason for yesterday's hissy fit about sleeping in the same room.

Romano's hand twitched where it lay across Spain's waist, so Germany quickly raced off to the sanctuary of the bathroom before things took a turn for worse.

* * *

><p>The state of Germany's sunburn, once he'd gotten the chance to look at himself in the mirror, was really rather appalling. He'd wanted to avoid burning his back, but it seemed he had only accomplished being sunburned everywhere else instead—his shoulders and neck had turned pick overnight, the outline of his tank top clear as day, and even his nose and cheeks were a little rosier than before. Fortunately it only really stung if he touched it, but he'd been applying sunscreen just about every hour yesterday, so how on earth had he gotten himself burnt when it had been so <em>cloudy<em>?

Germany sighed. If there was any benefit at all to being a nation, it was that he would heal quickly. Besides, he'd experienced enough truly horrifying sunburns that he could be grateful for sunscreen even _existing_ now.

He soaked a washcloth in cold water from the sink and pressed it to the sunburn for a while, allowing himself some blissful solitude in which to mull things over. He'd made a few discoveries over the last few days that had nothing to do with Spanish culture or the people he was with, but rather about himself—he'd come to realize that he was probably more in love with Italy than he thought, for one thing, and now that he'd forced himself away from his duties and seen that the world had not collapsed around him, it was remarkably easy to examine the things he truly wanted to spend his time doing. He'd never considered it this way before, but maybe he could take much better care of himself and his citizens by doing the pointless things that made him happy. He supposed he could at least make _Italy_ happier that way, but thinking about that subject again brought a fresh wave of memories of his dream that he quickly tried to will away.

He couldn't stand to put it off any longer, so Germany decided to dress himself properly and get on with starting his day. He also thought about what he might do to pass the time until the others got up—right, he remembered that he still wanted to check whether Prussia actually had anything important to say to him last night, or whether his incredible talent for ruining moments of intimacy had finally worked on him as well. He practically had a sixth sense about it, or so France claimed: he had _way_ too more stories about barging in on various couples to be normal.

Germany tried to make a stealthy exit from the bathroom to the sitting room, but this didn't go as smoothly as he would have liked as he soon discovered he was no longer the only person awake. He quietly called out Italy's name, not realizing that he may have been mistaken until _after_ Romano had finished pulling his shirt on over his head. In his own defense, they _did _look awfully similar when he couldn't see their faces.

"Oh," said Germany, surprised. "You're not Italy."

It took both of them a moment to process the intense stupidity of what he'd just said.

"I'm not Italy," said Romano, echoing him.

"You're not—Veneziano, rather." Germany cringed—he knew from dealing with his brother that Romano probably hated it when others spoke in a way that suggested he was the less important one, and he actually did feel bad for letting that slip out of his mouth. "That was obviously not what I meant."

To be quiet honest, Germany had been almost certain that Romano would go right back to his irritable ways today; that he'd fiercely deny everything that went on the night before. And yet he hadn't—he was deathly quiet, and it was already very unusual for him to barely even react to Germany's words when normally he might have already started a confrontation. Romano just seemed tired this morning, almost numb, and Germany couldn't comprehend why.

Then he noticed Romano's gaze shifting from the carpet and over to Spain's sleeping face, and the brief look of distress that appeared across his features.

The reality of the situation dawned on him, sudden and horrifying—in his haste to escape to the bathroom, Germany had completely failed to realize the terrible consequences of Romano finding him up before he was. He also realized, in that moment, that Romano had probably woken up exactly as Germany had last seen him, and they both knew there was almost no chance that he'd passed by the second bed and not noticed anything.

It was a very rare feeling for Germany, but he was all at once at a loss for what to say or even ought to do. If he had only known beforehand that this would happen, he would have gladly laid back down and played dead for as long as it took to avoid this unfortunate situation.

"There's coffee downstairs," Romano said, finally, after a tense silence. "I'm leaving."

"I thought you didn't like coffee," said Germany, inanely. He had no idea why he tried to latch on to this as a subject of conversation, except maybe out of sheer desperation. He wasn't exactly surprised that it didn't work.

"Does it matter? I'm only telling you because I'm taking the room key with me."

"Shaddup already, 'mano." Both of them jumped—Spain, apparently only semi-conscious, stretched his arm out from under the blankets and swatted ineffectually at the back of Romano's leg. "Lemme sleep."

He rolled over onto his stomach, stole one of Romano's pillows for himself, and was out like a light once more.

"_Fuck_," Romano whispered. He stood there for a few painful seconds longer before walking past, going to the bedroom door and wordlessly slipping out.

Then there was only silence. Germany gazed longingly at the other bed, wishing he could just crawl back in next to Italy and sleep this whole episode off. Instead, he allowed himself only a moment in which to acknowledge how immensely grateful he was that Italy had not grown up to be nearly as difficult, then turned on his heel and exited the room.

* * *

><p><strong>Culture Notes<strong>

I made a very brief mention of hand gestures in this chapter. It's actually true that Italians talk with their hands a lot, whether just gesturing for emphasis or conveying something that your words alone do not or using gestures with more specific meanings. There are way more hand gestures that Italians might use compared to the rest of the world, so I would suggest looking them up.

I don't think I've really mentioned Italy or Romano gesturing much, but I imagine they try to tone it down around people who don't understand it. Plus, Germany's probably used to Italy's gesturing by now and him making specific note of it in the story wouldn't make much sense to me.

**Headcanon Note** - This is absolutely never going to come up, but one of my Prussia headcanons is that he's never had a relationship work out but he's spent so much time pining over (_insert your favorite character to ship him with here)_ that he has some pretty wise things to say about love. Normally I see people writing France this way, and while I do think he loves telling other people his opinion I think France would probably either have a completely romanticized or jaded way of looking at love, so his advice is pretty useless in this one area.


End file.
